Retief: Cultural Exchange. Keith Laumer
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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.”
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