The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
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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. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines….
“What does the naked-back here?” barked a deep voice behind Retief. He turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
“I came to take a look at your new liner,” said Retief.
“We need no prying foreigners here,” the youth snapped. His eye fell on the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
“Doddering hulk!” he snapped at the ancient. “May you toss in nightmares! Put by the plans!”
“My mistake,” Retief said. “I didn’t know this was a secret project.”
The youth hesitated. “It is not a secret project,” he muttered. “Why should it be secret?”
“You tell me.”
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the Fusty gesture of uncertainty. “There is nothing to conceal,” he said. “We merely construct a passenger liner.”
“Then you don’t mind if I look over the drawings,” said Retief. “Who knows? Maybe some day I’ll want to reserve a suite for the trip out.”
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. “Went for his big brother, I guess,” he said. “I have a feeling I won’t get to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?”
“Willingly, light-footed one,” said the old Fustian. “And mine is the shame for the discourtesy of youth.”
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
“A plague on these youths,” said the oldster, “who grow more virulent day by day.”
“Why don’t you elders clamp down?”
“Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new. Unknown in my youth was such insolence.”
“The police—”
“Bah!” the ancient rumbled. “None have we worthy of the name, nor have we needed ought ere 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 pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured Groaci