"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—"