Retief Unbound by Keith Laumer

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