The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
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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.”
* * * *
II
As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table.
“Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?”
Whaffle blinked. “You’re the fellow who’s filling in for Magnan, over at MUDDLE,” he said. “Properly speaking, equipment grants are the sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and Exchanges.” He pursed his lips. “However, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. They’ll be receiving heavy mining equipment.”
“Drill rigs, that sort of thing?”
“Strip mining gear.” Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket, blinked at it. “Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE interested in MEDDLE’s activities?”
“Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It’s just that Croanie cropped up earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on—”
“That’s not MEDDLE’s affair, sir,” Whaffle cut in. “I have sufficient problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE’S business.”
“Speaking of tractors,” another man put in, “we over at the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for mining equipment for d’Land through MEDDLE—”
“SCROUNGE was late on the scene,” Whaffle said. “First come, first served. That’s our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen.” He strode off, briefcase under his arm.
“That’s the trouble with peaceful worlds,” the SCROUNGE committeeman said. “Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist peace-loving d’Land—comes to naught.” He shook his head.
“What kind of university do they have on d’Land?” asked Retief. “We’re sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an institution.”
“University? D’Land has one under-endowed technical college.”
“Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?”
“Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax the facilities of the college.”
“I wonder if the Bogans know that?”
“The Bogans? Why, most of d’Land’s difficulties are due to the unwise trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students indeed!” He snorted and walked away.
* * * *
Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and ordered a beer.
A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.
“Happy days,” he said.
“And nights to match.”
“You said it.” He gulped half his beer. “My name’s Karsh. Mr. Karsh. Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place waiting….”
“You meeting somebody?”
“Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on me.”
“Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?”
“I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a cradle-robber. You know—” he turned to Retief—“not