Retief Unbound by Keith Laumer Page B

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."
    "The plot is foiled,"
said Whonk. "But what reason did they have?"
    "The Groaci are behind it. I
have an idea the SCARS didn't know about this gambit."
    "Which of these is the
leader?" asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen youth. "Arise, dreaming
one."
    "Never mind him, Whonk. We'll
tie these two up and leave them here. I know where to find the boss."
    A stolid-looking crowd filled the
low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial
faces, dwarfed by the giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room
Magnan fluttered a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration
filled the air, the rumble of sub-sonic Fustian music.
    Retief slid into his place beside
Magnan. "Sorry to be late, Mr. Ambassador."
    "I'm honored that you chose to
appear at all," Magnan said coldly. He turned back to the Fustian on his
left.
    "Ah, yes, Mr. Minister,"
he said. "Charming, most charming. So joyous."
    The Fustian looked at him,
beady-eyed. "It is the Lament of Hatching," he said, "our
National Dirge."
    "Oh," said Magnan.
"how interesting. Such a pleasing balance of instruments."
    "It is a droon solo,"
said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial Ambassador suspiciously.
    "Why don't you just admit you
can't hear it," Retief whispered loudly. "And if I may interrupt a
moment—"
    Magnan cleared his throat.
"Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived, perhaps we could rush right along to
the sponsorship ceremonies..."
    "This group," said
Retief, leaning across Magnan to speak to the Fustian, "the SCARS . . .
how much do you know about them, Mr. Minister?"
    "Nothing at all," the
huge Fustian elder rumbled. "For my taste, all youths should be kept
penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility."
    "We mustn't lose sight of the
importance of channeling youthful energies," said Magnan.
    "Labor gangs," said the
minister. "In my youth we were indentured to the dredge-masters. I myself
drew a muck- sledge."
    "But in these modern
times," put in Retief, "surely it's incumbent on us to make happy
these golden hours."
    The minister snorted. "Last
week I had a golden hour: they set upon me and pelted me with over-ripe
dung-fruit."
    "But this was merely a
manifestation of normal youthful frustrations," cried Magnan. "Their
essential tenderness—"
    "You'd not find a tender spot
on that lout yonder," the minister said, pointing with a fork at a newly
arrived youth, "if you drilled boreholes and blasted."
    "Why, that's our guest of
honor," said Magnan, "a fine young fellow, Slop I believe his name
is—"
    "Slock," said Retief.
"Nine feet of armor-plated orneriness. And-"
    Magnan rose, tapping on his glass.
The Fustians winced at the, to them, supersonic vibrations, and looked at each
other muttering. Magnan tapped louder. The minister drew in his head, his eyes
closed. Some of the Fustians rose and tottered for the doors; the noise level
rose. Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter, and green
wine gushed on the tablecloth.
    "What in the name of the Great
Egg." the minister muttered. He blinked, breathing deeply.
    "Oh, forgive me," Magnan
blurted, dabbing at the wine.
    "Too bad the glass gave
out," Retief said. "In another minute you'd