Retief at Large
Retief 09
(1978)*
Keith Laumer
Contents
EXCHANGE
SECOND
SECRETARY MAGNAN took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered beret from the
clothes tree. "I'm off now, Retief," he said. "I hope you'll
manage the administrative routine during my absence without any unfortunate
incidents."
"That
seems a modest enough hope," Retief said. "I'll try to live up to
it."
"I
don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division," Magnan said
testily. "When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization Directorate,
Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I fancy I've made MUDDLE
what it is today. Frankly, I question the wisdom of placing you in charge of
such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a
rubber-stamp function."
"In
that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple of weeks off
myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure to bear."
"I
assume you jest, Retief," Magnan said sadly. "I should expect even
you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may be the
first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more cultivated
channels."
"I
see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land," Retief said,
glancing at the Memo for Record. "That's a sizable sublimation."
Magnan
nodded. "The Bogans have launched no less than four military campaigns in
the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster.
Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that precedent and entering into the
cultural life of the Galaxy."
"Breaking
and entering," Retief said. "You may have something there. But I'm
wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrial world of the poor
but honest variety."
"Academic
details are the affair of the students and their professors," Magnan said.
"Our function is merely to bring them together. See that you don't
antagonize the Bogan representative. This will be an excellent opportunity for
you to practice your diplomatic restraint—not your strong point, I'm sure
you'll agree."
A
buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. "What is it, Miss Furkle?"
"That—bucolic
person from Lovenbroy is here again." On the small desk screen, Miss
Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.
"This
fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief," Magnan said.
"Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here at Corps HQ, all
eyes are upon you."
"If
I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit," Retief said.
Magnan
snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle's button.
"Send
the bucolic person in."
A
tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy
cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket, stepped into the
room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at sight of Retief, looked him
over momentarily, then advanced and held out his hand. Retief took it. For a
moment the two big men stood, face to face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted.
Then he winced.
Retief
dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.
"That's
nice knuckle work, mister," the stranger said, massaging his hand.
"First time anybody ever did that to me. My" fault though. I started
it, I guess." He grinned and sat down.
"What
can I do for you?" Retief said.
"You
work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were all
ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer. What I
wanted to see you about was—"He shifted in his chair. "Well, out on
Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is just about ready. We
start picking in another two, three months. Now I don't know if you're familiar
with the Bacchus vines we grow ...?"
"No,"
Retief said. "Have a cigar?" He pushed a box across the desk.
Arapoulous took one. "Bacchus vines are an unusual crop," he said,
puffing the cigar alight. "Only mature every twelve years. In between, the
vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own. We like to
farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms. Apples the size of a
melon—and sweet—"
"Sounds
very pleasant," Retief said. "Where does the Libraries and Education
Division come in?"
Arapoulous
leaned forward. "We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks can't spend all
their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all the land area we've got into
parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable forest areas for hunting and
such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr. Retief."
"It
sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—"
"Call
me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Our year's about
eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric orbit, you know.
Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly painting and sculpture in
the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold. Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice
skating; and it's the season for woodworkers. Our furniture—"
"I've
seen some of your furniture," Retief said. "Beautiful work."
Arapoulous
nodded. "All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil and those
sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Then comes the Monsoon.
Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's getting closer. Shines all the
time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine? That's the music-writing
season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stay inside in the daytime and have beach
parties all night. Lots of beach on Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the
drama and symphony time. The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored
offshore. You have the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're
close to the center of a globular cluster, you know ..."
"You
say it's time now for the wine crop?"
"That's
right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just the ordinary crops.
Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't take long. We spend
most of the time on architecture, getting new places ready for the winter or
remodeling the older ones. We spend a lot of time in our houses. We like to
have them comfortable. But this year's different. This is Wine Year."
Arapoulous
puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. "Our wine crop is our big
money crop," he said. "We make enough to keep us going. But this year
..."
"The
crop isn't panning out?"
"Oh,
the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm only twenty-eight;
I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem's not the crop."
"Have
you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the Commercial—"
"Lost
our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever settled for
anything else!"
"It
sounds like I've been missing something," said Retief. "I'll have to
try them some time."
Arapoulous
put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. "No time like the
present," he said.
Retief
looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both dusty, with faded labels,
and blackened corks secured by wire.
"Drinking
on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous," he said.
"This
isn't
drinking.
It's just wine." Arapoulous pulled the wire
retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the air.
Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle. "Besides, my
feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me." He winked.
Retief
took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. "Come to think
of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint native customs."
Arapoulous
filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep rust-colored fluid,
tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked at Arapoulous thoughtfully.
"Hmmm.
It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted port."
"Don't
try to describe it, Mr. Retief," Arapoulous said. He took a mouthful of
wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. "It's Bacchus wine, that's
all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy." He pushed the second bottle toward Retief.
"The custom back home is to alternate red wine and black."
Retief
put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, caught it as it
popped up.
"Bad
luck if you miss the cork," Arapoulous said, nodding. "You probably
never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years back?"
"Can't
say that I did, Hank." Retief poured the black wine into two fresh
glasses. "Here's to the harvest."
