Retief Unbound (8 page)

Half an hour later he laid the
folder aside, keyed the phone, and put through a call to the Croanie Legation,
asking for the Commercial attaché.

"Retief here, Corps HQ,"
he said airily. "About the MEDDLE shipment, the tractors. I'm wondering if
there's been a slip-up. My records show we're shipping five hundred
units."

"That's correct. Five
hundred."

Retief waited.

"Ah . . . are you there, Mr.
Retief?"

"I'm still here. And I'm still
wondering about the five hundred tractors."

"It's perfectly in order; I
thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle-" "One unit would require a
good-sized plant to handle its output," Retief said. "Now Croanie
subsists on her fisheries. She has perhaps half-a-dozen pint-sized processing
plants. Maybe, in a bind, they could handle the ore ten WV's could scrape
up ...
if Croanie had any ore. By the way,
isn't a WV a poor choice as a mining outfit? I should think-"

"See here, Retief, why all
this interest in a few surplus tractors? And in any event, what business is it
of yours how we plan to use the equipment? That's an internal affair of my
government. Mr. Whiffle—"

"I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are
you going to do with the other four hundred and ninety tractors?"

"I understood the grant was to
be with no strings attached!"

"I know it's bad manners to
ask questions. It's an old diplomatic tradition that any time you can get
anybody to accept anything as a gift, you've scored points in the game. But if
Croanie has some scheme cooking—"

"Nothing like that, Retief!
It's a mere business transaction."

"What kind of business do you
do with a Bolo WV? With or without a blade attached, it's what's known as a continental
siege unit—"

"Great Heavens, Retief! Don't
jump to conclusions! Would you have us branded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a
closed line?"

"Certainly. You may speak
freely."

"The tractors are for
trans-shipment. We've gotten ourselves into a difficult situation in our
balance of payments. This is an accommodation to a group with which we have
strong business ties."

"I understand you hold a
mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy," Retief said. "Any
connection?"

"Why . . . ah . . . no. Of
course not."

"Who gets the tractors eventually?"

"Retief, this is unwarranted
interference—"

"Who gets them?"

"They happen to be going to
Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—" "And who's the friend you're helping
out with an unauthorized trans-shipment of grant material?"

"Why . . . ah . . . I've been
working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan representative."

"And when will they be
shipped?"

"Why, they went out a week
ago. They'll be halfway there by now. But look here, Retief, this isn't what
you're thinking!"

"How do you know what I'm
thinking? I don't know myself." Retief rang off and buzzed the secretary.

"Miss Furkle, I'd like to be
notified immediately of any new applications that might come in from the Bogan
Consulate for placement of students."

"Well, it happens, by
coincidence, that I have an application here now. Mr. Gulver of the Consulate
brought it in."

"Is Mr. Gulver in the office?
I'd like to see him."

I'll ask him if he has time."

It was half a minute before a
thick-necked red-faced man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned
suit, a drab shirt, shiny shoes with round toes, and an ill-tempered
expression.

"What is it you wish?" he
barked. "I understood in my discussions with the other . . . ah . . .
civilian there'd be no further need for these irritating conferences."

"I've just learned you're
placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How many this time?"

"Three thousand."

"And where will they be
going?"

"Croanie—it's all in the
application form I've handed in. Your job is to provide transportation."

"Will there be any other
students embarking this season?"

"Why . . . perhaps. That's
Boge's business." Gulver looked at Retief with pursed lips. "As a
matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching another two thousand to
Featherweight."

"Another under-populated
world—and in the same cluster, I believe," Retief said. "Your people
must be unusually interested in that region of space."

"If that's all you wanted to
know, I'll be on my way. I have matters of importance to see to."

After Gulver left Retief called
Miss Furkle in. "I'd like to have a break-out of all the student movements
that have been planned under the present program," he said. "And see
if you can get a summary of what MEDDLE has been shipping lately."

Miss Furkle bridled. "If Mr.
Magnan were here, I'm sure he wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of
other departments. I . . . overheard your conversation with the gentleman from
the Croanie Legation—"

"The lists, Miss Furkle."

"I'm not accustomed,"
Miss Furkle said, "to intruding in matters outside our interest
cluster."

"That's worse than listening
in on phone conversations, eh? But never mind. I need the information, Miss
Furkle."

"Loyalty to my Chief-"

"Loyalty to your pay-check
should send you scuttling for the material I've asked for," Retief said.
"I'm taking full responsibility. Now scat."

The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped
a key. "MUDDLE, Retief speaking . .."

Arapoulous' brown face appeared on
the desk screen.

"How do, Retief. Okay if I
come up?"

"Sure, Hank. I want to talk to
you."

In the office, Arapoulous took a
chair. "Sorry if I'm rushing you, Retief," he said. "But have
you got anything for me?"

Retief waved at the wine bottles.
"What do you know about Croanie?"

"Croanie? Not much of a place.
Mostly ocean. All right if you like fish, I guess. We import some seafood from
there. Nice prawns in monsoon time. Over a foot long."

"You on good terms with
them?"

"Sure, I guess so. Course,
they're pretty thick with Boge."

"So?"

"Didn't I tell you? Boge was
the bunch that tried to take us over here a dozen years back. They would have
made it, too, if they hadn't had a lot of bad luck. Their armor went in the
drink, and without armor they're easy game."

Miss Furkle buzzed. "I have your
lists," she said shortly.

"Bring them in, please."

The secretary placed the papers on
the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye and grinned. She sniffed and marched from
the room.

"What that gal needs is a
slippery time in the grape mash," Arapoulous observed. Retief thumbed
through the papers, pausing to read from time to time. He finished and looked
at Arapoulous.

"How many men do you need for
the harvest, Hank?" Retief inquired.

Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass.

"A hundred would help,"
he said. "A thousand would be better. Cheers."

"What would you say to two
thousand?"

"Two thousand? Retief, you're
not foolin'?"

"I hope not." He picked
up the phone, called the Port Authority, and asked for the dispatch clerk.

"Hello, Jim. Say, I have a
favor to ask of you. You know that contingent of Bogan students; they're
travelling aboard the two CDT transports. I'm interested in the baggage that
goes with the students. Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. . . ."

Jim came back to the phone.
"Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived. But there's a funny thing. It's
not consigned to d'Land; it's ticketed clear through to Lovenbroy."

"Listen, Jim," Retief
said. "I want you to go over to the warehouse and take a look at that
baggage for me."

Retief waited while the dispatch
clerk carried out the errand. The level in the two bottles had gone down an
inch when Jim returned to the phone.

"Hey, I took a look at that
baggage, Retief. Something funny going on. Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand
blasters, power pistols—"

"It's okay, Jim. Nothing to
worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim, I'm going to ask you to do something more
for me. I'm covering for a friend; it seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word
to get out, you understand. I'll send along a written change order in the
morning that will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to
do. . . ."

Retief gave instructions, then rang
off and turned to Arapoulous.

"As soon as I get off a couple
of TWX's, we'd better get down to the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the
students off personally."

Karsh met Retief as he entered the
Departures enclosure at the port.

"What's going on here?"
he demanded. "There's some funny business with my baggage consignment;
they won't let
me
see it
I've got a feeling
it's not
being
loaded."

"You'd better hurry, Mr.
Karsh," Retief said. "You're scheduled to blast off in less than an
hour. Are the students all loaded?"

"Yes, blast you! What about my
baggage? Those vessels aren't moving without it!"

"No need to get so upset about
a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr. Karsh?" Retief said blandly.
"Still, if you're worried—" He turned to Arapoulous.

"Hank, why don't you walk Mr.
Karsh over to the warehouse and . . . ah . . . take care of him?"

"I know just how to handle
it," Arapoulous said.

The dispatch clerk came up to
Retief. "I caught the tractor shipment," he said. "Funny kind of
mistake, but it's okay now. They're being off-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the
traffic controller there; he said they weren't looking for any students."

"The labels got switched, Jim.
The students go where the baggage was consigned; too bad about the mistake
there, but the Armaments Office will have a man along in a little while to
dispose of the guns. Keep an eye out for the real luggage; no telling where
it's gotten to—"

"Here!" a hoarse voice
yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in a tight hat was crossing the
enclosure, his arms waving.

"Hi there, Mr. Gulver,"
Retief called. "How's Boge's business coming along?"

"Piracy!" Gulver blurted
as he came up to Retief. "You've

got a hand in this, I don't doubt!
Where's that Magnan fellow         "

"What seems to be the
problem?" Retief said.

"Hold those transports! I've
just been notified that the baggage shipment has been impounded. I'll remind
you, that shipment enjoys diplomatic free entry."

"Who told you it was
impounded?^

"Never mind! I have my
sources!"

Two tall men buttoned into grey
tunics came up. "Are you Mr. Retief of CDT?" one said.

"That's right."

' "What about my
baggage!" Gulver cut in. "And I'm warning you, if those ships lift
without—"

"These gentlemen are from the
Armaments Control Commission," Retief said. "Would you like to come
along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?"

"From what? I . . ."
Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears. "Armaments . . ?"

"The only shipment I've held
up seems to be somebody's arsenal," Retief said. "Now, if you claim
this is your baggage . . ."

"Why, impossible," Gulver
said in a strained voice. "Armaments? Ridiculous. There's been an
error."

At the baggage warehouse, Gulver
looked glumly at the opened cases of guns. "No, of course not," he
said dully. "Not my baggage. Not my baggage at all."

Arapoulous appeared, supporting the
stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.

"What-what's this?"
Gulver spluttered. "Karsh? What's happened . . . ?"

"He had a little fall. He'll
be okay," Arapoulous said.

"You'd better help him to the
ship," Retief said. "It's ready to lift. We wouldn't want him to miss
it."

"Leave him to me!" Gulver
snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. "I'll see he's dealt with."

"I couldn't think of it,"
Retief said. "He's a guest of the Corps, you know. We'll see him safely
aboard."

Gulver turned and signaled
frantically. Three heavyset men in identical drab suits detached themselves
from the wall and crossed to the group.

"Take this man," Gulver
snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at him dazedly.

"We take our hospitality
seriously," Retief said. "We'll see him aboard the vessel."

Gulver opened his mouth—

"I know you feel bad about
finding guns instead of school books in your luggage," Retief said,
looking Gulver in the eye. "You'll be busy straightening out the details
of the mix-up. You'll want to avoid further complications."