



Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
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AIDE MEMOIRE
BY KEITH LAUMER
The Fustians looked like turtles—but
   
  they could move fast when they chose!
 
  [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
   
  Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
   
  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
   
  the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
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. 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, but
the thought failed to keep the chill off.
 
  Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward
Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
 
  "That's close enough, kids," he said. "Plenty of room on this scow. No
need to crowd up."
 
  "There are certain films," the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was
unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved
awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
 
  "I told you once," said Retief. "Don't crowd me."
 
  The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a
foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw
his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell
heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other
Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.
The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another
vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,
tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
 
  So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.
They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,
after running a copy for the reference files.
 
  And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV
battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval
Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. 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 he 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. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various
fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
 
  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 light, climbed up on the bales, looked over
into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged
Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
 
  Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine
and pulled the sack free.
 
  "It's me, old fellow," Retief said. "The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you
into this."
 
  The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and 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," said the Fustian. "He would provide
fuel to the Devil himself."
 
  "The Groaci again," said Retief. "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,
bulldozed 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, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He
knelt, 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 first
period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge
Moss
Rock
."
 
  "The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"
 
  "I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements
after I have settled a score with certain Youths."
 
  "We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance I
know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the
floor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium
pile."
III
 
  Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the
sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the
official luxury space barge
Moss Rock
.
 
  "A sign of the times," said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.
"A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away
to sleep."
 
  "Let's go aboard and take a look around."
 
  They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box
stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note
in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
 
  "Curious," he said. "What means this?" He held up a stained cloak of
orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
 
  "Orange and green," mused Relief. "Whose colors are those?"
 
  "I know not." Whonk glanced at the arm-band. "But this is lettered." He
passed the metal band to Retief.
 
  "SCARS," Retief read. He looked at Whonk. "It seems to me I've heard
the name before," he murmured. "Let's get back to the Embassy—fast."
 
  Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck
the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and
fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm
embrace.
 
  "Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?"
 
  "The lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled Whonk. The captive
youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.
 
  "Hang onto him," said Retief. "He looks like the biting kind."
 
  "No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength."
 
  "Ask him where the titanite is tucked away."
 
  "Speak, witless grub," growled Whonk, "lest I tweak you in twain."
 
  The youth gurgled.
 
  "Better let up before you make a mess of him," said Retief. Whonk
lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump
that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the
elder, mouth snapping.
 
  "This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the
killing," said Whonk. "In his repentance he will tell all to his elder."
 
  "That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance
with me on the bus," Retief said. "He gets around."
 
  The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief
planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the
bare back of the Fustian—
 
  "By the Great Egg!" Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried
to rise. "This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!"
 
  Retief looked at the scarred back. "I thought he looked a little old.
But I thought—"
 
  "This is not possible," Whonk said wonderingly. "The great nerve trunks
are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the
carapace and leave the patient living."
 
  "It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with us
and get out of here. His folks may come home."
 
  "Too late," said Whonk. Retief turned.
 
  Three youths came from behind the sheds.
 
  "Well," Retief said. "It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.
Where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "The sticky little
bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers
holding the bag, I'll bet."
 
  "Shelter behind me, Retief," said Whonk.
 
  "Go get 'em, old-timer." Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.
"I'll jump around and distract them."
 
  Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.
They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief
whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammed
it against the skull of another, who shook his head, 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, seriously 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 sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled
for a boat ride 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
with a horny toe. "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 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 subsonic 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," said Magnan 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, "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 Magnan, "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 overripe stench-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. "Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—"
 
  Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to
them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.
Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some
of the Fustians rose, 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," blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
 
  "Too bad the glass gave out," said Retief. "In another minute you'd
have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in
sideways. There's a matter you should know about—"
 
  "Your attention, please," Magnan said, rising. "I see that our fine
young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee
will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.
Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the
pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group."
 
  Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. "Don't introduce me yet," he said. "I
want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know."
 
  "Well," murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, "I'm gratified to
see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." He turned his
attention back to the assembled guests. "If our honored guest will join
me on the rostrum...?" he said. "The gentlemen of the press may want to
catch a few shots of the presentation."
 
  Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,
took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
 
  "How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the
great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS," he said, talking slowly
for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "We'd like to think that
in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve
during the years ahead."
 
  Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low
steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the
newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
 
  Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.
Slock stared at him, drew back.
 
  "You know me, Slock," said Retief loudly. "An old fellow named Whonk
told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?
It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're
building."
IV
 
  With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as
the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear
of the floor.
 
  "Glad you reporters happened along," said Retief to the gaping newsmen.
"Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.
The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman
at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.
The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed
by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby
worlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo."
 
  Magnan found his tongue. "Are you mad, Retief?" he screeched. "This
group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!"
 
  "The Ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped Retief. He turned back
to Slock. "I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was
planned for today. When the
Moss Rock
blew, a variety of clues were
to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written all
over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair
squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorship
of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity."
 
  "The
Moss Rock
?" said Magnan. "But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.
Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!"
 
  Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip
loosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting
his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan
watched, open-mouthed.
 
  "The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual," Retief said. "They
intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served their
purpose."
 
  "Well, don't stand there," yelped Magnan over the uproar. "If Slock is
the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" He moved to give chase.
 
  Retief grabbed his arm. "Don't jump down there! You'd have as much
chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest."
 
  Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "We can get through
now," Whonk called. "This way." He lowered himself to the floor, bulled
through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in
Whonk's wake.
 
  In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a
code letter. No reply. He tried another.
 
  "No good," he said after a full minute had passed. "Wonder what's
loose?" He slammed the phone back in its niche. "Let's grab a cab."
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low
cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The
three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of
his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
 
  "Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we
bludgeoned aboard the
Moss Rock
," he sighed. "Soon will I be forced
into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I
will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily
feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no
pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal
outlook for one's next thousand years!"
 
  "You two carry on to the police station," said Retief. "I want to play
a hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right."
 
  "What—?" Magnan started.
 
  "As you wish, Retief," said Whonk.
 
  The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped
down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood
vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
 
  "That's the trouble with a peaceful world," Retief muttered. "No police
protection." He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a
position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring
blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessed
wrong....
 
  There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
 
  Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had
reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A
small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed
off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side
of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing
Groaci.
 
  "Well, Yith," he said, "how's tricks? You should pardon the expression."
 
  "Release me, Retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat
bladder pulsating in agitation. "The behemoths vie for the privilege of
dismembering me out of hand!"
 
  "I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price."
 
  "I appeal to you," Yith whispered hoarsely. "As a fellow diplomat, a
fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—"
 
  "Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?" said Retief. "Now
keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive."
 
  The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the
ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was
on its back, helpless.
 
  "That's Whonk, still on his feet," said Retief. "I wonder who he's
caught—and why."
 
  Whonk came toward the
Moss Rock
dragging the supine Fustian, who
kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the
sentry box. "Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I can
outrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do." He stepped out and
hailed Whonk.
 
  Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. "Sleep,
Retief!" He panted. "You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw
something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I
watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead
carapace! Now many things become clear."
Retief whistled. "So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.
Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!"
 
  "The Soft One," Whonk said. "You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.
Produce him now."
 
  "Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—"
 
  Whonk winked broadly. "I must take my revenge!" he roared. "I shall
test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up
by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!"
 
  Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet
away, hauled him back to Whonk.
 
  "It's up to you, Whonk," he said. "I know how important ceremonial
revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere."
 
  "Mercy!" Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim
diplomatic immunity!"
 
  "No diplomat am I," rumbled Whonk. "Let me see; suppose I start with
one of those obscenely active eyes—" He reached....
 
  "I have an idea," said Retief brightly. "Do you suppose—just this
once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to
arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?"
 
  "But," Whonk protested, "those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one
by one!"
 
  "Yess," hissed Yith, "I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoons
of them, with the finest of equipment."
 
  "I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him
squash beneath my bulk...."
 
  "Light as a whissle feather shall you dance," Yith whispered.
"Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—"
 
  "Maybe just one eye," said Whonk grudgingly. "That would leave him
four."
 
  "Be a sport," said Retief.
 
  "Well."
 
  "It's a deal then," said Retief. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat,
an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groaci
surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.
It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And
in return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges of
interference in the internal affairs of a free world."
 
  Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the
borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seize
him, lift him high and head for the entry to the
Moss Rock
.
 
  "Hey," Retief called. "Where are you going?"
 
  "I would not deny this one his reward," called Whonk. "He hoped to
cruise in luxury. So be it."
 
  "Hold on," said Retief. "That tub is loaded with titanite!"
 
  "Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a
vengeance."
 
  Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp
and disappeared within the ship.
 
  "I guess Whonk means business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,
all five eyes goggling. "And he's a little too big for me to stop."
 
  Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
 
  "What did you do with him?" said Retief. "Tell him you were going to—"
 
  "We had best withdraw," said Whonk. "The killing radius of the drive is
fifty yards."
 
  "You mean—"
 
  "The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep."
"It was quite a bang," said Retief. "But I guess you saw it, too."
 
  "No, confound it," Magnan said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or
Whelk—"
 
  "Whonk."
 
  "—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll most
certainly complain to the Minister."
 
  "How about the surgical mission?"
 
  "A most generous offer," said Magnan. "Frankly, I was astonished. I
think perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly."
 
  "I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it," said
Retief. "And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups
are on the way out."
 
  Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "I—ah—have explained to
the press that last night's—ah—"
 
  "Fiasco."
 
  "—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable
position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the
presumed death of, uh, Slop."
 
  "The Fustians understand," said Retief. "Whonk wasn't kidding about
ceremonial vengeance."
 
  "The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,"
said Magnan. "I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less
formal...."
 
  "The
Moss Rock
was bound for Groaci," said Retief. "She was already
in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on
schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.
I think that should be all the
aide
the Groaci's
memoires
will need
to keep their tentacles off Fust."
 
  "But diplomatic usage—"
 
  "Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you
for, if anything goes wrong."
 
  "That's true," said Magnan, lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.
 
  "Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm
taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My
pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is
good."
 
  "But there are some extremely important matters coming up," said
Magnan. "We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—"
 
  "Count me out. All groups give me an itch."
 
  "Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are
ourselves a group."
 
  "Uh-huh," Retief said.
 
  Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the
hall and closed the door gently behind him.

What is the plot of the story?
4
5b6e8d8966aa4d008d21bc2759834090
As the story opens, Ambassador Magnan briefs Councillor Retief on the Terrestrial Embassy’s request for sponsorship of youth groups on the planet Fust.  Councillor Retief is not interested. Magnan specifically suggests that Retief sponsor the group SCARS (Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society), and warns Retief that the rival Groaci may fill any void. Retief suggests researching the youth groups before giving them money. Magnan is dismissive. Retief is still not interested, and leaves to go look at plans for a new passenger liner being built by the Fustians. 
Retief takes a flat-car to the ship yard and meets Whonk, who is a shipyard clerk. He asks to see the blueprints, which he photographs. He and Whonk chat about the attitude of the youth, and Whonk blames it on their new leader, Slock, who hangs around with Yith, a member of the Groaci embassy.
Later, while Retief is on his way home to dress for a dinner and press event organized by Magnan, two Fustian youths threaten him on the bus. Retief realizes that they were after his photos, which showed that the ship under construction was a battle cruiser, not a passenger liner. He also realizes that Whonk may be in danger. Retief escapes the youths and races back to the shipyard to find that Whonk has been dragged off and tied up in a warehouse. From the Fustian’s wounds, Retief realized that they had tried to kill him.
Retief figures out that the Fustian youths have taken some titanite, an explosive, over to a ship called the Moss Rock, which would be full of dignitaries later. He and Whonk race over there and encounter more Fustians, and win a fight with them, effectively breaking up the Groaci-backed plot to blow up the ship. 
Retief arrives at the banquet a little late, and exchanges a few words with Magnan, who proceeds to make the Fustians miserable with his cultural insensitivity. A few minutes later, the SCARS leader, Slock, arrives. Retief reveals Slock’s plan: Slock, backed by the Groaci, was planning to take over Fust. The Groaci tried to frame the Terrestrial Embassy for the plot.
Slock escaped. Retief went back toward the Moss Rock, where Whonk tackled Slock, and Retief accosted Yith. Whonk wanted to take revenge on Yith for attacking him earlier, but Retief instead negotiated a deal in which Yith, who had mastered removing the Fustian carapace surgically, which would be a great relief to Whonk and other elders, would agree to do so in return for not being ritually dismembered. Just as this agreement was completed, Slock tried to escape again, but Whonk dumped him on the Moss Rock, and set the autopilot for Groaci, still full of titanite. It blew up on the way there.
Magnan wrested what he could, diplomatically speaking, from the wreckage of the youth sponsorship program and moved on to plans to sponsor Senior Citizens Groups.

3
33a99d27926948c09e8527c8a0863bcd
This story follows Retief, a Terrestrial diplomat working on the surface of the Fustian planet, where these two species co-exist with the Groaci. At the start of the story, Retief is talking to the Terrestrial Ambassador about a new program that the Fustians are looking for sponsorship for, that the Ambassador wants Retief to take care of. Retief, the Councillor, does not seem interested, and heads out to the shipyards to ask the people there some questions about a new ship being built. An older Fustian named Whonk allows him to see the plans for the ship and tells Retief about Slock, one of the local leaders of the Youths that seems to be a bad influence. These troublesome characters showed up to talk to Whonk and scare Retief off of the docks as Retief slips out unnoticed. He finds plans in the Embassy's library for an old battle cruiser that match the plans for the new ship, pointing him towards a plot to re-introduce weapons into the society. He finds Whonk, injured from the others' attempt to extract information from him, and the two of them piece together the clues: there was titanite, a dangerous explosive, that is going to be placed on the fanciest boat at the docks, the Moss Rock. When they get to that ship to take a look, they find a variety of items emblazoned with the logo of SCARS, the Youth Group that Ambassador Magnan wanted Retief to sponsor at the beginning. Retief figures that these items are here as planted false evidence, so that the explosion would be pinned on the Youth Group, and thus the Terrestrials by extension. Retief's goal is to destroy this plot--Whonk captures a Fustian who they realize has had his shell surgically removed, something that they thought impossible. Retief takes this to mean that the Groaci have more medical knowledge than they realized, and that they are responsible for this plot. In order to expose this plan, he heads to the banquet where the sponsorship of the Youth Group is being announced. He interrupts the Ambassador's grand announcement, exposing the plot to the press that was already gathered there. He knew Slock to be a gang leader, told everyone of the plan to blow up the Moss Rock and his deal with the Groaci, and then runs toward the boat with Whonk and the Ambassador. Whonk wanted to follow through with his society's classic ceremonial revenge against Yith, the Groaci at the ship, but Retief convinces them to have a sort of trade: Yith would share the medical knowledge to remove Whonk's heavy outer shell so that it would no longer be a nuisance and a heavyweight, and Slock is thrown onto the Moss Rock as it leaves the docks and explodes. With the plot exposed, the Ambassador wants to move on to more social projects, but Retief heads out for a fishing vacation with his new friend Whonk.
8
a7064998590c4b819f8cc3238df496c0
The story begins with a meeting between Ambassador Magnan and Councillor Retief, who represents the Terrestrial Embassy on the planet Fust. The planet is populated with turtle-like creatures called Fustians (the younger Fustians lack the hard shell of the mature ones). Magnan assigns Retief the mission of sponsoring a new youth movement there called the Sexual, Cultural, Athletic Recreational Society (SCARS). Instead, Retief prefers to investigate a new passenger ship being built by the Fustians. Upon his arrival at the shipyard, Retief meets Whonk, an elderly Fustian who maintains documents, and he shows Retief the blueprints for the new ship. A young Fustian named Slock enters and arouses Retief’s suspicions by inquiring what he wants with the plans. After he leaves the shipyard, Retief is attacked by two young Fustians, and he returns to find Whonk has been attacked as well. Retief notices a stain on the ground that Whonk tells him is a remnant of four drums belonging to the Groaci—an alien species that operated a competing embassy. Retief had seen interacting a Groaci attache interacting with the youth that had attacked him earlier. The drums had been loaded onto a boat called "Moss Rock." After identifying the smelly stain as an explosive called titanite, Retief and Whonk go to "Moss Rock" and discover a box containing a SCARS uniform. While there, they are attacked by an older-looking youth Fustian and discover that he is not a youth at all; rather, his shell has been removed by some mysterious method. They ward off another attack by his friends, and Retief decides to head to the sponsorship ceremony, realizing that the Groaci are likely taking advantage of the SCARS group's distaste for Fustian leadership to advance their plot to bomb "Moss Rock". At the sponsorship ceremony, Ambassador Magnan introduces Slock as guest of honor, and Retief and Whonk seize the opportunity to apprehend him and explain his deal with the Groaci to the press: The Groaci would supply weapons, and Slock would make sure they were installed on the ship. The SCARS uniforms found at the scene of the exploded ship would implicate them along with the Terrestrial Embassy, because of its sponsorship of SCARS. Magnan notes that Slock was scheduled to be on the ship, and Retief rebuts that this reveals the Groaci's intention to get rid of Slock after he'd done their bidding. Thus, the disaster at "Moss Rock" would cement the Groaci's control of Fust. Retief returns to the "Moss Rock" and captures the Groaci diplomat Yith, and Whonk captures Slock, whom they both discover has also had his shell surgically removed to appear younger. Retief makes a deal with Whonk to spare Yith's life in exchange for the same shell-removal surgery. Whonk takes his revenge on Slock by placing him back on the "Moss Rock" and exploding the ship with the titanite barrels on its course to Groaci. Retief informs Magnan that this display will prevent the Groaci from pursuing any further action against Fust.
2
de621b3387174916833eeca37bc082a8
Ambassador Magnan wants Retief, the Councillor working with him at the Terrestrial Embassy, to sponsor the Fustian youth group the Sexual, Cultural, and Athletic Recreational Society (SCARS), but Retief isn’t interested. Instead, he wants to check out the new passenger liner that the Fustians are building, but he does express concern about the Groaci’s interest in Fust, which has a steel-age manufacturing economy while Groaci is into crude atomics. At the shipyards, an old Fustian named Whonk shows him the blueprints for the new passenger liner. Retief takes photographs of the blueprints to study them later. Slock, a young Fustian, comes with a Groaci Embassy military attache and beats up on Whonk while Retief sneaks out the back.

Later in the day, Retief has to attend a dinner where the sponsor for the SCARS youth group will be announced. On the way, he is accosted by two Fustain youth who tell him they want the films for the pictures he took of the blueprints. Retief manages to elude them. He has looked at pictures and realized they are plans for a replica of a battlecruiser used two hundred years ago and has gun placements. Retief realizes that Whonk must have told them about his pictures and knows that he wouldn’t tell them willingly, so he goes to Whonk’s office to look for him. He sees signs of a struggle and finds Whonk tied up behind some bales where he is out of sight. Whonk reveals he was attacked by a Groaci, Slock, and his cohorts, and they tried to kill him. Retief recognizes the smell of an explosive, and Whonk tells him drums of it have been placed on a barge called Moss Rock. 

Retief and Whonk decide to go back to the Embassy but are attacked by one of the young Fustians who attacked Whonk earlier that day. As they wrestle with him, they pull off his cloak to discover that his carapace has been removed, so he isn’t really a youth. Whonk is stunned because he believed it wasn’t possible to remove a carapace without killing the Fustian. 

At the dinner, Magnan announces that Retief has won the “bidding” to sponsor the SCARS. Retief sneaks up on Slock and tells Magnan that he has figured out that the Groaci are planning to take over a local world and then branch out to more worlds. They have been using the young Fustians to help them set up their attack but planned to kill them after everything was ready. Retief catches a Groaci, and Whonk wants to kill him, but Retief gets him to promise to have the Groaci surgeon remove the carapaces from the older Fustians like Whonk. When Retief reports the scheme to Magnan, he tells his superior that the Moss Rock is headed for Groaci and will explode there, ending their problems with the Groaci.

Summarize the Fustian life cycle and culture.
4
5b6e8d8966aa4d008d21bc2759834090
Fustians somewhat resemble gigantic, intelligent snapping turtles, and like turtles, start life as eggs. During their youth and adolescence, they are relatively agile and have no shells (unlike turtles). It is notable how many Fustian elders take a dim view of adolescents, with the Minister of Fust himself saying that the Youth should be “kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility.”
When Fustians mature, they develop an enormous, horny carapace which they are obliged to carry around on their backs for the rest of their lives, which last over a thousand years. The carapaces cause the adult Fustians to be slow-moving, and they take up a lot of space – hence their public transportation consists of flat-cars instead of buses with seats. Unfortunately, not much is known by off-worlders of Fustian females.
Like most intelligent races, Fustians enjoy music. The frequencies at which their music is played are subsonic, and therefore not audible to the human ear. Likewise, their ears are quite sensitive to high frequencies, such as those produced by tapping on a crystal glass with a spoon. This is not just unpleasant, but painful to Fustian ears.

3
33a99d27926948c09e8527c8a0863bcd
Fustians are similar to tortoises in build, with yellow eyes, scales, and very thick hides that leak purple blood when cut. They have a much longer life-cycle than humans, as those that are 75 years of age are still considered to be teenagers or even youths. 

As Faustians age, they grow larger, their voices get deeper, and they eventually acquire very heavy shells. It is past their current medical knowledge to safely remove the shells, though we find out at the end of the story that the Groaci have discovered a technique that allows them to do this. This is important because the shells slow the older Fustians down and are often considered a nuisance. When they are young, they are very secretive, and wary of strangers from other groups and species. The older Fustians do not seem to mind the humans (and aliens in general) as much, and sometimes apologize for the behavior of the younger ones. It seems that they wish they could do more to control their behavior, but the younger ones are physically much faster and can escape attempts at control. It also seems to be the case that this difference in behavior is more acute now than it has been in the past, perhaps due to social pressures from other groups. 

Sleep is very important to them, and regular greetings in day-to-day life include well wishes for a long rest, as well as specific types of dreams. When they are angry or want to insult someone, they wish nightmares upon them. They have regular siesta times during the work day. Sleep is so important to them that they have a National Dirge called the Lament of Hatching. Ceremonial revenge is also important to them: although the older Fustians are not necessarily quick to anger, they follow through once they have been wronged. 
8
a7064998590c4b819f8cc3238df496c0
Fustians are a species turtle-like in their appearance. They have very long lives; in fact, the average age of a Fustian youth is seventy-five years old. As they age, they develop a hard-shell on their backs, which is quite heavy and hard. This causes them to move slower as they get older. The younger Fustians can move quite fast in comparison. However, the older Fustians appear to be a great deal stronger and can hold their own in combat, as demonstrated by Whonk when he defends himself against Slock’s cronies and eventually captures Slock. The elderly Fustians also grow thicker skin, which is what ultimately prevents Whonk from being decapitated when he is first attacked. Fustians have turtle-like mouths that snap when they are angry. Steel manufacturing fuels their economy. While older Fustians are generally hospitable and patient, the younger Fustians have become frustrated with the ways of the elderly Fustian leadership, and their drive to change things blinds them to being manipulated by the Groaci. Although weapons are illegal on Fust, the younger Fustians seem willing to break this rule by accepting weapons from the Groaci in exchange for their knowledge of the ships.
2
de621b3387174916833eeca37bc082a8
The Fustians look like turtles and have extremely long lifespans. Younger Fustians do not have a carapace, but older ones do, which can be quite heavy. Seventy-five-year-olds are considered youths, like teenagers, because they can live for about two thousand years. The 75-year-olds have a reputation as being at a trying age. As Whonk explains to Retief, the youth have a reputation for “shame” and “discourtesy.” The Elders feel that there is little they can do about the youths' misbehavior since the Elders are so much slower with their carapaces. They have no police and have never needed them until the youth became so unruly. They have a youth group, the Sexual, Cultural, and Athletic Recreational Society (SCARS), that needs a sponsor and wants someone to provide them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment, and so forth. The Fustians’ dwellings have a fishy odor and are found along a broad cobbled street. They have a caste system; the driver of a flat car is a member of the labor caste. Their greetings relate to peaceful sleep: “Long-may-you-sleep” and “May-you-dream-of-the-deeps.” Likewise, their insults related to unpleasant sleep: “May you toss in nightmares!” The oldest Fustians are forced into retirement and given once-daily feedings; Whonk says this is nothing to look forward to for his next thousand years. They have a strong sense of right and wrong and carry out ceremonial revenge when wronged.
Who is Magnan, and what is his role in and relevance to the story?
4
5b6e8d8966aa4d008d21bc2759834090
Magnan is the Ambassador to Fust, and thus is Retief’s boss. He is also a spineless, political wind-sniffing clod. His main role, or function in the story is as a foil to the hero, Retief. Magnan’s clueless blathering sets up Retief’s dry, sarcastic remarks – remarks which, if Magnan were not so oblivious, would perhaps offend Magnan to the point of firing Retief. 
While Retief is running around Fust getting into fist fights and spoiling terrorists’ plots, Magnan is back at the office shuffling whatever papers came in from the Terrestrial Embassy that day, implementing the “program of the week.” Magnan is flat. Retief is three-dimensional.
Magnan’s main contributions to the story are to: 
1.	Ignore Retief’s advice to check out the Fustian youth organizations before sponsoring them, which leads to the potential for the Terrestrial Embassy being embarrassed by the Groaci attempts to frame SCARS for the explosion they hoped to cause aboard the Moss Rock. 
2.	Set up the banquet to honor SCARS where he grossly insults his Fustian counterparts by having the hired musicians play a dirge, the “Lament of Hatching,” and then shattering their ear drums by tapping on his wine glass.
3.	Whip up a meringue of obfuscation to hide the fiasco of the youth organization sponsorship program and try to make himself smell like a rose in the process
4.	Start a new sponsorship program for Fustian Senior Citizens.
At no point in the story does he do anything useful at all.

3
33a99d27926948c09e8527c8a0863bcd
Magnan is the Terrestrial Ambassador to the Fustians. He is the figurehead of their influence on the Fustian planet, and works closely with Retief, the Terrestrial diplomat who uncovers a plot against the Terrestrials through the course of the story. He is the man who tries to convince Retief to sponsor the Youth Group SCARS in the beginning of the story, and we encounter him at the banquet near the end of the story. As the figurehead, he is responsible for announcing the role of the Terrestrials in funding the Youth Group, which creates an opportunity for Retief to announce the Grocian plot to everyone. Ambassador Magnan eventually joins Retief and Whonk as they leave the event to stop the criminals, but he is thrown into an alley by Whonk and doesn't have an opportunity to help directly. After the issue is dealt with by Whonk and Retief, Magnan resumes normal duty, and as the story ends he is looking at other groups that his government could potentially fund.

8
a7064998590c4b819f8cc3238df496c0
Magnan is an ambassador with the Terrestrial Embassy, and he assigns Retief the mission to sponsor the new youth movement (SCARS) on the planet Fust. Magnan seems eager for this sponsorship to proceed despite his general ignorance about the movement itself. His motivation for speed rather than understanding may be attributed to the haste with which the Groaci Embassy has moved to establish a connection with SCARS. Magnan, of course, is not aware of the secret dealings between the Groaci and the SCARS, whom they are working with to ultimately supplant the Fustian leadership and take control of the planet for themselves. Magnan’s vision is fairly straightforward and views this sponsorship as the surest way to curry good favor with the Fustians (and get good publicity for the Terrestrial Embassy). Magnan is impatient with Retief’s more meticulous, fact-finding methods and organizes the sponsorship ceremony before Retief has completed his research. At the ceremony, Magnan’s interactions with the Fustian minister reveal further his humorous ignorance about their species, particularly when he hurts their sensitive hearing by banging his glass louder and louder. After he invites Slock on stage to present him to the press as his guest of honor and representative of SCARS, Whonk and Retief capture Slock and expose his plan to Magnan. At first, Magnan does not believe them, but he is quickly convinced when Slock escapes. In the end, Magnan creates a story for the press that the sponsorship event was a ruse to apprehend the perpetrators of the attempted coup against the Fustian leadership. 
2
de621b3387174916833eeca37bc082a8
Magnan is the Ambassador at the Terrestrial Embassy on Fust and Councillor Retief’s boss. He wants Retief to sponsor the SCARS and stops just short of ordering him to do so. Magnan is very focused on his role as Ambassador and has little interest in anything not directly connected to his job. Magnan is not concerned about the passenger ship the Fustians are building or the fact that the Groacis are interested in the Fustians when their lives and economies are so different from each other. When Retief mentions the fact that the Groacis are interested in fission bombs, Magnan’s reaction is to wonder what market there could be for such devices since the world is at peace. He is politically correct and is shocked when Retief mentions the carapaces that the older Fustians has. He also pretends that he can hear the Fustians’ music when he clearly isn’t able to do so. Magnan is manipulative because he announces that Retief will sponsor SCARS even after Retief clearly tells him he is not interested. He misjudges character and refers to Slock as a fine young fellow when Slock is rude, violent, and mixed up in the scheme with the Groacis to begin conquering nearby worlds. At the end of the story when Magnan finally learns of the deceit of the young Fustians and the Groacis, he tries to act like he knew about it all along. His disinterest in anything not related to diplomacy gives Retief the leeway he needs to figure out the Fustian and Groaci crimes.
Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story?
4
5b6e8d8966aa4d008d21bc2759834090
Whonk is a very old Fustian who works as a clerk at the shipyards. He meets Retief when Retief comes to to inquire about seeing plans for the new passenger liner. Whonk is neutral and correct, but not especially friendly. His partnership, and it seems fair to say, friendship with Retief really begins when Retief returns to the shipyard to look for Whonk and finds that the Fustian thugs who tried and failed to kill him, due to his thick, mature skin and shell, have left him tied up, in an undignified position on his back.
Retief apologizes for putting him in danger, and gets the old Fustian back on his feet. Whonk is so grateful that he tells Retief, “My cows are yours,” a heartfelt, traditional Fustian expression of gratitude. 
Whonk is extremely angry about what the Fustian Slock and his gang have done to him, and throws in his lot with Retief. Thereafter, every time Retief is in physical danger from Fustians, Whonk is right there to help. 
At the end of the story, Whonk steps in again to help Retief capture Yith, a member of the Groaci diplomatic mission, and Slock the rebel adult Fustian with no carapace. His desire for vengeance against these two nearly overwhelms his good sense. He puts Slock on the Moss Rose with the titanite that Slock had intended to use against Fustian politicians, and sets the rocket to blast off to Groaci, knowing that it would below up before it got there. 
But Retief manages to settle him down enough not to take Yith apart piece by piece, by getting the Groaci to do something that would make Whonk’s life a lot easier and more pleasant: surgically remove his carapace. 
Whonk is steadfast, reliable, implacable – a good sidekick for Retief.

3
33a99d27926948c09e8527c8a0863bcd
Whonk is the older Fustian who helps Retief uncover the Groacian plot. He is looking after papers when Retief asks to see the plans of the new ship being built, but is hurt by the gang members and Youths that come in after Retief leaves. He is still willing to help Retief after this, and the two of them work together to piece together their evidence. Being older means that Whonk has a very heavy shell that keeps him from moving quickly, but he is very strong--he manages to capture a number of characters throughout the story to keep them from running away. Not only is Whonk the reason Retief was able to confirm that the new ship was indeed meant to be a battle cruiser, helping to uncover the plot, but the two of them become friends and go on a fishing trip together at the end of the story.
8
a7064998590c4b819f8cc3238df496c0
Whonk is an elderly Fustian who works managing documents at the shipyard where Retief goes to investigate the new passenger ship being built there. Whonk shares the documents with Retief, who notices its similarities to a defunct ship design that had been previously used in combat. Whonk educates Retief on the rebellious ways of the younger Fustians before they witness a Groaci military attache consulting with some youth outside his office. The youth attack Whonk after Retief’s departure, nearly severing his head. When Retief returns to help him, Whonk is very grateful and continues to help Retief on his mission to discover the real connection between the Groaci and SCARS. Whonk guides Retief to the “Moss Rock” and helps Retief defeat yet another group of attacking youth. Whonk discovers that one of the youths is not a youth at all but rather an older Fustian with a detached shell. He is baffled by this. After a fracas at the sponsorship ceremony, Retief captures the Groaci attaché, and Whonk apprehends Slock, whom he quickly discovers is also an older Fustian with a surgically-removed shell. Retief convinces Whonk to forego his act of vengeance on the Groaci, and in exchange the Groaci would provide the elders of Fust with the same surgical procedure provided to the SCARS members. Pleased with this arrangement, Whonk agrees, but he is still seeking vengeance. He places Slock aboard the “Moss Rock” and sends it on a path to Groaci. The ship explodes on the way, killing Slock, and sending a message to the Groaci to stay away from Fust.
2
de621b3387174916833eeca37bc082a8
Whonk is an older Fustian who is very polite and helpful to Retief. He lets Retief look at the blueprints for the passenger ship that the younger Fustians are building with the Groacis and then apologizes for the rudeness of the younger Fustian who confronts Retief for looking at the plans. Whonk becomes Retief’s ally right away; he holds off the younger Fustians who come back to confront Retief, giving Retief a chance to sneak out the back door. After two younger Fustians tell Retief they want his films from his pictures of the plans, he realizes they must have gotten the information about the pictures from Whonk and knew Whonk wouldn’t have given it to them freely. When he checks on Whonk, he finds him tied up. The younger Fustians had tried to kill him. From then on, the two work together, checking the Moss Rock for explosives that have been removed from the storage area. When attackers come, Whonk protects Retief and blocks the attackers with his carapace. Whonk provides Retief with information that he needs to determine who is involved in criminal activity and what that criminal activity is. At the end of the story, he provides justice for Slock by putting him aboard the Moss Rock before it blows up so that he gets his just rewards. When everything settles, Whonk offers to take Retief on a fishing vacation.
What is the setting for this story?
4
5b6e8d8966aa4d008d21bc2759834090
The story is set entirely on the planet Fust. The native inhabitants of Fust are described as something similar to snapping turtles that walk on their hind legs, and much of the imagery used by Fustians when speaking revolves around themes of the sea and mud. Fust is a peaceful enough world that they don’t even really have much of a police force, despite the rowdy and rebellious behavior of Fustian youths. 
Not much is known about the physical characteristics of the planet, such as the proportion of sea and dry land. We know there must be oceans, because the warehouse where Wonk was tied up and left was full of bales of kelp, a sea product. The city of the story is also near a sea, whose breezes make it a bit cool at certain times of day.
The city where all the action takes place is an important city, perhaps the capitol. It is full of diplomatic missions from all planets, and is apparently a place of some Fustian learning and culture, given that it has musicians for hire. There is a space ship building operation right outside the city, which can be reached by public transport that consists of flat open wagons. This is practical for the unwieldy shape of the adult Fustian, if not too comfortable for a human.
One of the most interesting things about Fust, and the hardest for an outsider to understand, is their assorted suns and moons. Fust is lit by a blue sun called Alpha and a yellow sun known as Beta, and three moons orbit Fust. There is also a third sun, unnamed, so that there are three “noons” on Fust.

3
33a99d27926948c09e8527c8a0863bcd
The story takes place on the planet whose native species is a turtle-like race known as the Fustians. It is usually a peaceful planet, and does not have a police force like humans are used to--in fact, weapons are currently illegal. There are at least two other species living here as well: the Terrestrials and the Groaci. More specifically, the story takes place near the coastline, with many events taking place either in political buildings or at the docks. The sea that lines this area has strong tides controlled by a number of celestial objects: there are three moons and multiple sons. The major sun is referred to as Beta, and is yellow, but there is a blue sun called Alpha as well. This has strong impacts on the weather as well: it can be very chilly while there are no suns in the sky, but very hot when the light is at its strongest. Besides the Terrestrial Embassy, its technical library, and the banquet hall, the protagonist Retief spends most of his time near the docks. At the port, he spends some time in the new ship being built where he asks Whonk to see the plans. He also does some investigation on the Moss Rock, the luxury ship where he found false evidence planted.
8
a7064998590c4b819f8cc3238df496c0
The story takes place on the planet Fust, where a chancery houses the Terrestrial Embassy where Retief works. Fust has several suns and moons that regulate the tides of the ocean nearby. The Fustians regularly nap There is a large city surrounded by shipyards, where Retief conducts the majority of his investigation into the development of the new passenger barge. When Retief meets Whonk, they pore over blueprints for the barge in Whonk’s work hut and look out the window to see the Groaci attaché consulting with the Fustian youth that had harassed them earlier. Later, a pair of youth attack Retief at the bus station, and he returns to the shipyard to inquire after Whonk. He enters the warehouse behind Whonk’s shack and finds him injured in the midst of some hay bales. From there, Whonk and Retief go to the “Moss Rock”—a ship where the Groaci barrels filled with titanite had been taken earlier—to investigate. The “Moss Rock” is a luxurious ship dimly lit and meant for VIP guests. This is where Retief begins to uncover the plot of the Groaci to implicate SCARS in the ship’s destruction. Retief then attends the sponsorship ceremony, which is held in a banquet hall with a low-ceiling. Fustian music plays, which is inaudible to the human ear. After Slock escapes the ceremony, Retief goes back to the “Moss Rock”, and this is where Whonk ultimately apprehends Slock once more.
2
de621b3387174916833eeca37bc082a8
The story's setting is in the future on a space world named Fust, inhabited by creatures who look similar to turtles. Fust has oceans or seas large enough for passenger ships and barges which provide fish for the Fustians. Aliens come to Fust; Magnan and Retief work at the Terrestrial Embassy; the Groacis also have members on Fust. The planet has two suns: Beta, which is yellow, and Alpha, which is blue. There are also three moons. Part of the action in the story takes place in the Terrestrial Embassy. In contrast, other parts occur in the shipyard where the passenger ship is being built, its warehouse where Whonk is hidden after he is beaten, and where the explosive had been stored, aboard the barge the Moss Rock where the explosive has been moved and where Whonk puts Slock at the end of the story, and a low-ceiling banquet hall where the dinner is being held. Magnan announces Retief’s sponsorship of SCARS.

