"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 gray hair, wearing tight trousers
of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,
stepped into the room. He had 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 and 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?" Retief said.
"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 the cigar alight. "Only mature every twelve years. In between,
the vines don't need a lot of attention, so 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," Retief said. "Beautiful work."
Arapoulous nodded. "All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil
and 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 getting
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 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, 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, 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, swallowed. "It's Bacchus
wine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy." 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,
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 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."
"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
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'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."