"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.