Retief Unbound (7 page)

"That's too bad," Retief
said. "I'd say this one tastes more like roast beef and popcorn over a
Riesling base."

"It put us in a bad
spot," Arapoulous went on. "We had to borrow money from a world
called Croanie, mortgaged our crops; we had to start exporting art work too.
Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when you're doing it for
strangers."

"What's the problem?"
Retief said, "Croanie about to foreclose?"

"The loan's due. The wine crop
would put us in the clear; but we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes
isn't a job you can turn over to machinery—and we wouldn't if we could. Vintage
season is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in. First,
there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards covering the
mountain sides, crowding the river banks, with gardens here and there. Big
vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep grass growing between. The
wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine to the pickers. There's prizes
for the biggest day's output, bets on who can fill the most baskets in an hour.
The sun's high and bright, and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of
energy. Come nightfall the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast
is laid on: roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads and plenty
of fruit and fresh-baked bread . . . and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking's
done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizes for the
best crews.

"Then the wine-making. We
still tramp out the vintage. That's mostly for the young folks—but anybody's
welcome. That's when things start to get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty
near half our young-uns are born about nine months after a vintage. All bets
are off then. It keeps a fellow on his toes though; ever tried to hold onto a
gal wearin' nothing but a layer of grape juice?"

"Never did," Retief said.
"You say most of the children are born after a vintage. That would make
them only twelve years old by the time—"

"Oh, that's Lovenbroy years;
they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning."

"I was thinking you looked a
little mature for twenty- eight," Retief said.

"Forty-two, Terry years,"
Arapoulous said. "But this year—it looks bad. We've got a bumper crop—and
we're short-handed. If we don't get a big vintage, Croanie steps in; lord knows
what they'll do to the land.

"What we figured was, maybe
you Culture boys could help us out: a loan to see us through the vintage,
enough to hire extra hands. Then we'd repay it in sculpture, painting,
furniture—"

"Sorry, Hank. All we do here
is work out itineraries for traveling side-shows, that kind of thing. Now if
you needed a troop of Groaci nose-flute players—"

"Can they pick grapes?"

"Nope—anyway they can't stand
the daylight. Have you talked this over with the Labor office?"

"Sure did. They said they'd
fix us up with all the electronics specialists and computer programmers we
wanted—but no field hands. Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery;
you'd have thought I was trying to buy slaves."

The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle
appeared on the desk screen.

"You're due at the Inter-Group
Council in five minutes," she said. "Then afterwards, there are the
Bogan students to meet."

"Thanks." Retief finished
his glass and stood. "I have to run, Hank," he said. "Let me
think this over. Maybe I can come up with something. Check with me day after
tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottles here. Cultural exhibits, you
know."

As the council meeting broke up,
Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table.

"Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a
shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?"

Whaffle blinked. "You're the
fellow who's filling in for Magnan, over at MUDDLE," he said.
"Properly speaking, equipment grants are the sole concern of the Motorized
Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and Exchanges." He pursed his lips.
"However, I suppose there's no harm in my telling you. They'll be
receiving heavy mining equipment."

"Drill rigs, that sort of
thing?"

"Strip mining gear."
Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket and blinked at it. "Bolo
Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why MUDDLE's interest in MEDDLE's
activities?"

"Forgive my curiosity, Mr.
Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up earlier today; seems she holds a
mortgage on some vineyards over on—"

"That's not MEDDLE's affair,
sir," Whaffle cut in. "I have sufficient problems as Chief of MEDDLE
without probing into MUDDLE's business."

"Speaking of tractors,"
another man put in, "we over at the Special Committee for Rehabilitation
and Overhaul of Underdeveloped Nations' General Economies have been trying for
months to get a request for mining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE-"

"SCROUNGE was late on the
scene," Whaffle said. "First come, first served, that's our policy at
MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen." He strode off, a briefcase under his arm.

"That's the trouble with
peaceful worlds," the SCROUNGE committeeman said. "Boge is a
trouble-maker, so every agency in the Corps is out to pacify her, while my
chance to make a record—that is, assist peace-loving d'Land, comes to naught."

"What kind of university do
they have on d'Land?" asked Retief. "We're sending them two thousand
exchange students. It must be quite an institution—"

"University? D'Land has one
under-endowed technical college."

"Will all the exchange
students be studying at the Technical College?"

"Two thousand students? Hah!
Two hundred students would overtax the facilities of the college!"

"I wonder if the Bogans know
that?"

"The Bogans? Why, most of
d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwise trade agreement she entered into
with Boge. Two thousand students indeed." He snorted and walked away.

Retief stopped by the office to
pick up his short violet cape, then rode the elevator to the roof of the
230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a cab to the port. The Bogan students
had arrived early. Retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through
customs. It would be half an hour before they were cleared through. He turned
into the bar and ordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised
his glass.

"Happy days," he said.

"And nights to match."

"You said it." He gulped
half his beer. "My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh. Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a
drag, sitting around this place waiting."

"You meeting somebody?"

"Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids.
How they expect—Never mind. Have one on me."

"Thanks. You a
scoutmaster?"

"I'll tell you what I am; I'm
a cradle-robber. You know," he turned to Retief, "not one of those
kids is over eighteen." He hiccupped. "Students, you know. Never saw
a student with a beard, did you?"

"Lots of times. You're meeting
the students, are you?"

The young fellow blinked at Retief.
"Oh, you know about it, huh?"

"I represent MUDDLE."

Karsh finished his beer and ordered
another. "I came on ahead: sort of an advance guard for the kids. I
trained 'em myself. Treated it like a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't
know how they'll act under pressure. If I had my old platoon—"

He looked at his beer glass, then
pushed it back. "Had enough," he said. "So long, friend. Or are
you coming along?"

Retief nodded. "Might as
well."

At the exit to the Customs enclosure,
Retief watched as the first of the Bogan students came through, caught sight of
Karsh, and snapped to attention.

"Drop that, mister,"
Karsh snapped. "Is that any way for a student to act?"

The youth, a round-faced lad with
broad shoulders, grinned.

"Guess not," he said.
"Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to town. Us fellas were
thinkin'—" "You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids—I mean
. . . No! Now line up!"

"We have quarters ready for
the students," Retief said. "If you'd like to bring them around to
the west side, I have a couple of copters laid on."

"Thanks," said Karsh.
"They'll stay here until take-off time. Can't have the little darlings
wandering around loose. Might get ideas about going over the hill." He
hiccupped. "I mean, they might play hookey."

"We've scheduled your
re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a long wait. MUDDLE's arranged theatre
tickets and a dinner."

"Sorry," Karsh said.
"As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off." He hiccupped again.
"Can't travel without our baggage, y'know."

"Suit yourself," Retief
said. "Where's the baggage now?"

"Coming in aboard a Croanie
lighter."

"Maybe you'd like to arrange
for a meal for the students here?"

"Sure," Karsh said.
"That's a good idea. Why don't you join us?" Karsh winked. "And
bring a few beers."

"Not this time," Retief
said. He watched the students, still emerging from Customs. "They seem to
be all boys," he commented. "No female students?"

"Maybe later," Karsh
said, "after we see how the first bunch is received."

Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief
buzzed Miss Furkle.

"Do you know the name of the
institution these Bogan students are bound for?"

"Why, the university at
d'Land, of course."

"Would that be the Technical
College?"

Miss Furkle's mouth puckered.
"I'm sure I've never pried into these details—"

"Where does doing your job
stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?" Retief said. "Personally, I'm
curious as to just what it is these students are travelling so far to study—at
Corps expense."

"Mr. Magnan never—"

"For the present, Miss Furkle,
Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves me with the question of two thousand
young male students headed for a world with no classrooms for
them ...
a world in need of tractors. But the
tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligations to Boge. And
Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy."

"Weill" Miss Furkle
snapped, her small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. "I hope you're not
questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!"

"About Mr. Magnan's wisdom
there can be no doubts," Retief said. "But never mind. I'd like you
to look up an item for me. How many tractors will Croanie be getting under the
MEDDLE program?"

"Why, that's entirely MEDDLE
business," Miss Furkle said. "Mr. Magnan always—"

"I'm sure he did. Let me know
about the tractors as soon as you can."

Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared
from the screen. Retief left the office, descended forty-one stories, and followed
a corridor to the Corps Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogs and
pored over indices.

"Can I help you?" someone
chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.

"Thank you, Ma'am,"
Retief said. "I'm looking for information on a mining rig: a Bolo model
WV tractor."

"You won't find it in the
industrial section," the librarian said. "Come along." Retief
followed her along the stacks to a well-lit section lettered ARMAMENTS. She
took a tape from the shelf, plugged it into the viewer, flipped through, and
stopped at a picture of a squat armored vehicle.

"That's the model WV,"
she said. "It's what is known as a Continental Siege Unit. It carries four
men, with a half- megaton/second firepower—"

"There must be an error
somewhere," Retief said. "The Bolo model I want is a tractor, model
WV M-l—"

"Oh, the modification was the
addition of a blade for demolition work. That must be what confused you."

"Probably—among other things.
Thank you."

Miss Furkle was waiting at the
office. "I have the information you wanted," she said. "I've
had it for over ten minutes. I was under the impression you needed it urgently,
and I went to great lengths—"

"Sure," Retief said.
"Shoot. How many tractors?"

"Five hundred."

"Are you sure?"

Miss Furkle's chins quivered.
"Weill If you feel I'm incompetent."

"Just questioning the
possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five hundred tractors is a lot of
equipment."

"Was there anything
further?" Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.

"I sincerely hope not,"
Retief said.

Leaning back in Magnan's padded
chair with its power swivel and hip-u-matic contour, Retief leafed through a
folder labeled "CERP 7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general)." He paused at a
page headed INDUSTRY. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the
two bottles of Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into
each, then sipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he
reflected, if anything should interfere with the production of such vintages.
.. .