Retief at Large (2 page)

            "We've
got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy," Arapoulous said, swallowing wine.
"But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em. We like to farm.
About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a force. They figured they
knew better what to do with our minerals than we did. Wanted to strip-mine,
smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise. But it took a year, and we lost a lot of
men."

            "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. Had to start exporting art
work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same when you're doing it for
strangers."

            "Say,
this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy," Retief said.
"What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?"

            "Well,
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
anyway 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, and 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. Plenty of fruit. 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 after a vintage. All
bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his toes though. Ever tried to hold
onto a gal wearing 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. Then next vintage time, with
them holding half our grape acreage—"

            "You
hocked the vineyards?"

            "Yep.
Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time."

            "On
the whole," Retief said, "I think I prefer the black. But the red is
hard to beat ..."

            "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 noseflute 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's features appeared on the desk screen.

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

            "Thanks."
Retief finished his glass, 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 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, blinked
at it. "Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE interested
in MEDDLE's activities?"

            "Forgive
my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped up earlier today. It
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 Under-developed 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,
briefcase under his arm.

            "That's
the trouble with peaceful worlds," the SCROUNGE committeeman said.
"Boge is a troublemaker, 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." He shook his head.

            "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 a short 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, 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, 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, his
chest out.

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

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

            "Heck,
no," he said. "Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to town? We
fellas were thinking—"

            "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
dears 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 theater 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. "You know, 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."