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 with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed the hut, then started toward it.
"That's the military attache 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 moved 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.
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He flipped on a light. A note was 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. He stationed himself in a corner and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly 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 third-noon sun,............