Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and
hip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled "CERP
7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general)." He paused at a page headed Industry.
Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of
Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and
sipped the black wine meditatively.
It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with the
production of such vintages....
Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put
through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial
Attache.
"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, 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. It doesn't. 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. Whaffle--"
"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 transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into a
difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodation
to a group with which we have rather 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, ha ha."
"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
transshipment 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 half way 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, 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."
"Great. Thanks." 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?"
"Two 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 compressed her lips. "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."