Aide Memoire

       The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose!

      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet of parchment and looked grave.

      “This aide memoire,” he said, “was just handed to me by the Cultural Attache. It’s the third on the subject this week. It refers to the matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—”

      “Some youths,” Retief said. “Average age, seventy-five.”

      “The Fustians are a long-lived people,” Magnan snapped. “These matters are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—”

      “That’s right. He’ll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.”

      “Precisely the problem,” Magnan said. “But the Youth Movement is the important news in today’s political situation here on Fust. And sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future. You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.”

      “I’m not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles,” Retief said. “Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group—”

      “To the Fustians this is no jesting matter,” Magnan cut in. “This group—” he glanced at the paper—”known as the Sexual, Cultural, and Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks now.”

      “Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and athletic development,” Retief said.

      “If we don’t act promptly,” Magnan said, “the Groaci Embassy may well anticipate us. They’re very active here.”

      “That’s an idea,” said Retief. “Let ’em. After awhile they’ll go broke instead of us.”

      “Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can’t actually order you to step forward. However....” Magnan let the sentence hang in the air. Retief raised one eyebrow.

      “For a minute there,” he said, “I thought you were going to make a positive statement.”

      *

      Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I don’t think you’ll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive,” he said.

      “I like the adult Fustians,” said Retief. “Too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would help.”

      “Great heavens, Retief,” Magnan sputtered. “I’m amazed that even you would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race’s unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity.”

      “Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater than mine. I’ve only been here a month. But it’s been my experience, Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your beard.”

      Magnan shuddered. “Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian.”

      Retief stood. “My own program for the day includes going over to the dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your permission, Mr. Ambassador...?”

      Magnan snorted. “Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me, Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with Youth groups—would create a far better impression.”

      “Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about them,” said Retief. “Who organizes them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What’s the alignment of this SCARS organization?”

      “You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak,” Magnan said. “Politics mean nothing to them ...yet.”

      “Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like Fust? Normally they’re concerned with nothing but business. But what has Fust got that they could use?”

      “You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance,” said Magnan. “Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci are barely ahead of them.”

      “Barely,” said Retief. “Just over the line into crude atomics ...like fission bombs.”

      Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. “What market exists for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying the social patterns of the local youth.”

      “I’ve studied them,” said Retief. “And before I meet any of the local youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack.”

      II

      Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.

      It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them, shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.

      “Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed,” he said in Fustian. “Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste.”

      Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. “You should take up professional racing,” he said. “Daredevil.”

      He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed. Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.

      A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace peered out at Retief.

      “Long-may-you-sleep,” said Retief. “I’d like to take a look around, if you don’t mind. I understand you’re laying the bedplate for your new liner today.”

      “May-you-dream-of-the-deeps,” the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist. “The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of papers.”

      “I know how you feel, old-timer,” said Retief. “That sounds like the story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the vessel? I understand it’s to be a passenger liner.”

      The oldster nodded.