"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.