Retief Unbound (6 page)

Hoshick curled his back in
attention. "Retief, you're quite serious? You would leave all the fair
sand hills to us?"

"The whole works. Hoshick.
I'll take the oases."

Hoshick rippled his fringes
ecstatically. "Once again you

have outdone me, Retief," he
cried, "this time, in generosity."

"We'll talk over the details
later. I'm sure we can establish a set of rules that will satisfy all parties.
Now I've got to get back. I think some of the gouger-forms are waiting to see
me."

It was nearly dawn when Retief gave
the whistled signal he had agreed on with Potter, then rose and walked into the
camp circle. Swazey stood up.

"There you are," he said.
"We been wonderin' whether to go out after you."

Lemuel came forward, one eye black
to the cheekbone. He held out a raw-boned hand. "Sorry I jumped you,
stranger. Tell you the truth, I thought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from
the CDT."

Bert came up behind Lemuel.
"How do you know he ain't, Lemuel?" he said. "Maybe he—"

Lemuel floored Bert with a backward
sweep of his arm. "Next cotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me
gets worse'n that."

"Tell me," said Retief.
"How are you boys fixed for wine?"

"Wine? Mister, we been livin'
on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe's fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes
to ferment liquor."

"Try this." Retief handed
over a squat jug. Swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank, and passed it to
Lemuel.

"Mister, where'd you get
that?"

"The Flap-jacks make it.
Here's another question for you: would you concede a share in this planet to
the Flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?"

At the end of a half hour of heated
debate Lemuel turned to Retief. "Well make any reasonable deal," he
said. "I guess they got as much right here as we have. I think we'd agree
to a fifty-fifty split. That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each
side."

"What would you say to keeping
all the oases and giving them the desert?"

Lemuel reached for the wine jug,
his eyes on Retief. "Keep talkin', mister," he said. "I think
you got yourself a deal."

Consul Passwyn glanced up as Retief
entered the office.

"Sit down, Retief," he
said absently. "I thought you were over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or
whatever they call that desert."

"I'm back."

Passwyn eyed him sharply.
"Well, well, what is it you need, man? Speak up. Don't expect me to
request any military assistance."

Retief passed a bundle of documents
across the desk. "Here's the Treaty. And a Mutual Assistance Pact and a
Trade Agreement."

"Eh?" Passwyn picked up
the papers and riffled through them. He leaned back in his chair, beaming.

"Well, Retief, expeditiously
handled." He stopped and blinked at the Vice-Consul. "You seem to
have a bruise on your jaw. I hope you've been conducting yourself as befits a
member of the Consulate staff."

"I attended a sporting event.
One of the players got a little excited."

"Well . . . it's one of the
hazards of the profession. One must pretend an interest in such matters."
Passwyn rose and extended a hand. "You've done well, my boy. Let this
teach you the value of following instructions to the letter."

Outside, by the hall incinerator
drop, Retief paused long enough to take from his briefcase a large buff
envelope, still sealed, and drop it in the slot.

Note:  Cultural Exchange was in Envoy to New Worlds but
not reprinted in Retief Unbound.  It has been restored here so that both are
complete in one volume.

. . . Highly effective ancillary
programs, developed early in Corps history, played a vital role in promoting
harmony among the peace-loving peoples of the Galactic community. The notable
success of Assistant Attaché (later Ambassador) Magnan in the cosmopolitization
of reactionary elements in the Nicodeman Cluster was achieved through the
agency of these enlightened programs. . . .

Vol. III, reel 71 482 A. E. (AD
2943)

First
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," said Second Secretary Retief. "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 a purely rubber-stamp function."

"In that case, let's leave it
to Miss Furkle, and 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 Nicodeman 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 grey hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the
neck, and a short jacket, stepped into the room, 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,
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?"
the Second Secretary said. "My name's Retief. I'm taking Mr. Magnan's
place for a couple of weeks."

"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 life into the
cigar. "Only mature every twelve years. In between, the vines don't need a
lot of attention; 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, I believe," said Retief. "Beautiful work."

Arapoulous nodded. "All local
timbers, too. Lots of metals in our soil; 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 gettin' 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 on barges off-shore. 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 and
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 and 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, and swallowed. "It's Bacchus wine, that's all." 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, and 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 the two fresh glasses.
"Here's to the harvest."

"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."