Retief Unbound (9 page)

"Ah . . . yes," Gulver
said.

Arapoulous went on to the passenger
conveyor, then turned to wave.

"Your man—he's going
too?" Gulver blurted.

"He's not our man, properly
speaking," Retief said. He lives on Lovenbroy."

"Lovenbroy?" Gulver
choked. "But . . . the . . . I . . ."

"I know you said the students
were bound for d'Land," Retief said. "But I guess that was just
another aspect of the general confusion. The course plugged into the navigators
was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad to know they're still headed there—even without
the baggage."

"Perhaps," Gulver said
grimly, "perhaps they'll manage without it."

"By the way," Retief
said. "There was another funny mix- up. There were some tractors—for
industrial use, you'll recall. I believe you co-operated with Croanie in arranging
the grant through MEDDLE. They were erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a
purely agricultural world. I saved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver,
by arranging to have them off-loaded at d'Land."

"D'Land! You've put the CSU's
in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies. . . ?"

"But they're only tractors,
Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't that correct?"

"That's . . . correct."
Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. "Hold the ships!" he yelled.
"I'm cancelling the student exchange."

His voice was drowned by the rumble
as the first of the monster transports rose from the launch pit, followed a
moment later by the second. Retief watched them fade out of sight, then turned
to Gulver.

"They're off," he said.
"Let's hope they get a liberal education."

Retief lay on his back in deep
grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tall figure, appearing on the knoll above
him, waved.

"Retief!" Hank Arapoulous
bounded down the slope. "I heard you were here—and I've got news for you.
You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundred bushels! That's a
record! Let's get on over to the garden, shall we? Sounds like the
celebration's about to start."

In the flower-crowded park among
the stripped vines, Retief and Arapoulous made their way to a laden table under
the lanterns. A tall girl dressed in a loose white garment, with long golden
hair, came up to Arapoulous.

"Delinda, this is
Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow that got those workers for
us."

Delinda smiled at Retief.
"I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. We weren't sure about the boys at
first; two thousand Bogans, and all confused about their baggage that went
astray. But they seemed to like the picking. . . ." She smiled again.

"That's not all; our gals
liked the boys," Hank said. "Even Bogans aren't so bad, minus their
irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. But how come you didn't tell me you
were coming, Retief? I'd have laid on some kind of big welcome."

"I liked the welcome I got.
And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnan was a little upset when he got back.
It seems I exceeded my authority."

Arapoulous laughed. "I had a
feeling you were wheelin' pretty free, Retief. I hope you didn't get into any
trouble over it." "No trouble," Retief said. "A few people
were a little unhappy with me. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments
at Departmental level. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little
more field experience."

"Delinda, look after
Retief," said Arapoulous. "I'll see you later. I've got to see to the
wine judging." He disappeared in the crowd.

"Congratulations on winning
the day," said Delinda. "I noticed you at work. You were wonderful.
I'm glad you're going to have the prize."

"Thanks. I noticed you too,
flitting around in that white nightie of yours. But why weren't you picking
grapes with the rest of us?"

"I had a special
assignment."

"Too bad. You should have had
a chance at the prize."

Delinda took Retief's hand. "I
wouldn't have anyway," she said. "I'm the prize."

. . . Supplementing broad knowledge
of affairs with such shrewd gambits as identification with significant local
groups, and the consequent deft manipulating of inter-group rivalries, Corps
officials on the scene played decisive roles in the preservation of domestic
tranquility on many a far-flung world. At Fust, Ambassador Magnan forged to
the van in the exercise of the technique ...

Vol VII, reel 43. 487 A. E. (AD
2948)

Across
the table
from
Retief, Ambassador Magnan, rustling a stiff sheet of parchment, looked grave.

"This aide memoire," he
said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural Attaché. It's the third on
the subject this week. It refers to the matter of sponsorship of Youth groups."

"Some youths," Retief
said. "Average age: seventy-five."

"The Fustians are a long-lived
people," Magnan snapped. "These matters are relative. At
seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age."

"That's right; he'll try
anything in the hope it will maim somebody."

"Precisely the problem,"
Magnan replied. "But the Youth Movement is the important news in today's
political situation here on Fust, and sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd
stroke on the part of the Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh
every member of the mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—
that is, to cement relations with this emergent power group: the leaders of the
future. You, Retief, as Counselor, are the outstanding exception."

"I'm not convinced these
hoodlums need my help in organizing their rumbles," Retief said.
"Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control group—"

"To the Fustians, this is no
jesting matter," Magnan cut in. "This group," he glanced at the
paper, "known as the Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society,
or SCARS, for short, has been awaiting sponsorship for a matter of weeks
now."

"Meaning they want someone to
buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment, and anything else they need to plot
against the peace in style," Retief said.

"If we don't act promptly, the
Groaci embassy may well anticipate us. They're very active here."

"That's an idea," said
Retief, "let 'em. After a while they'll be broke—instead of us."

"Nonsense. The group requires
a sponsor. I can't actually order you to step forward. However . . ."
Magnan let the sentence hang in the air. Retief raised one eyebrow.

"For a minute there," he
said, "I thought you were going to make a positive statement."

Magnan leaned back, lacing his
fingers over his stomach. "I don't think you'll find a diplomat of my
experience doing anything so naive," he said.

"I like the adult
Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug half a ton of horn
around on their backs. I wonder if surgery—"

"Great heavens, Retief,"
Magnan spluttered. "I'm amazed that even you would bring up a matter of
such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical characteristics are hardly a fit
matter for Terrestrial curiosity."

"Well, I've only been here a
month. But it's been my experience, Mr. Ambassador, that few people are above
improving on nature; otherwise you, for example, would be tripping over your
beard."

.Magnan shuddered.
"Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."

Retief stood. "My own program
for the day includes going over to the dockyards. There are some features of
this new passenger liner the Fustians are putting together that

I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador. . . ?"

Magnan snorted. "Your
preoccupation with the trivial disturbs me, Retief. More interest in
substantive matters- such as working with youth groups—would create a far
better impression."

"Before getting too involved
with these groups, it might be a good idea to find out a little more about
them," Retief said. "Who organizes them? There are three strong political
parties here on Fust; what's the alignment of this SCARS organization?"

"You forget, these are merely
teen-agers, so to speak," Magnan said. "Politics mean nothing to
them . . . yet."

"Then there are the Groaci.
Why their passionate interest in a two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're
concerned with nothing but business; and what has Fust got that they could use?

"You may rule out the
commercial aspect in this instance," said Magnan. "Fust possesses a
vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci are barely ahead of
them."

"Barely," said Retief.
"Just over the line into crude atomics .. . like fission bombs."

Magnan, shaking his head, turned
back to his papers. "What market exists for such devices on a world at
peace?" he said. "I suggest you address your attention to the less
spectacular but more rewarding work of insinuating yourself into the social
patterns of the local youth."

"I've considered the
matter," Retief said, "and before I meet any of the local youth
socially I want to get myself a good blackjack."

Retief left the sprawling
bungalow-type building that housed the chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy,
hailed one of the ponderous slow-moving Fustian flat-cars, and leaned back
against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle trundled through the city
toward the looming gantries of the shipyards. It was a cool morning with a
light breeze carrying the fish odor of Fustian dwellings across the broad
cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians lumbered heavily along in the shade of the
low buildings, audibly wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces.
Among them, shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of
the flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his
back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the shipyard
gates, and creaked to a halt.

"Thus I come to the shipyard
with frightful speed," he said in Fustian. "Well I know the way of
the naked-backs, who move always in haste."

Retief, climbing down, handed him a
coin. "You should take up professional racing," he said.
"Dare-devil."

Retief crossed the littered yard
and tapped at the door of a rambling shed. Boards creaked inside, then the door
swung back. A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered
carapace peered out at Retief.

"Long may you sleep,"
Retief said. "I'd like to take a look around, if you don't mind. I
understand you're laying the bed-plate for your new liner today."

"May you dream of the
deeps," the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy arm toward a group of
shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist. "The youths know more of
bed-plates than do I, who but tend the place of papers."

"I know how you feel,
old-timer," Retief said. "That sounds like the story of my life. Among
your papers do you have a set of plans for the vessel? I understand it's to be
a passenger liner."

The oldster nodded. He shuffled to
a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out a sheaf of curled prints, and spread them
on the table. Retief stood silently, running a finger over the uppermost
drawing, tracing lines . . .

"What does the naked-back
here?" a deep voice barked behind Retief. He turned. A heavy-faced Fustian
youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the open door. Beady yellow eyes set among
fine scales bored into Retief.

"I came to take a look at your
new liner," said Retief.

"We need no prying foreigners
here," the youth snapped. His eye fell on the drawings; he hissed in
anger.

"Doddering hulk!" he
snapped at the ancient, moving toward them. "May you toss in nightmares!
Put aside the plans!"

"My mistake," Retief
said. "I didn't know this was a secret project."

The youth hesitated. "It is
not a secret," he muttered. "Why should it be a secret?"

"You tell me."

The youth worked his jaws and
rocked his head from side to side in the Fustian gesture of uncertainty.
"There is nothing to conceal," he said. "We merely construct a
passenger liner."

"Then you don't mind if I look
over the drawings," Retief said. "Who knows, maybe someday I’ll want
to reserve a suite for the trip out."

The youth turned and disappeared.
Retief grinned at the oldster. "Went for his big brother, I guess,"
he said. "I have a feeling I won't get to study these in peace here. Mind
if I copy them?"

"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. "They 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."