The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
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finished his beer, ordered another. “I came on ahead. Sort of an advance guard for the kids. I trained ’em myself. Treated it like a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don’t know how they’ll act under pressure. If I had my old platoon—”
He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. “Had enough,” he said. “So long, friend. Or are you coming along?”
Retief nodded. “Might as well.”
* * * *
At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to attention, his chest out.
“Drop that, mister,” Karsh snapped. “Is that any way for a student to act?”
The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.
“Heck, no,” he said. “Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to town? We fellas were thinking—”
“You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean…no! Now line up!”
“We have quarters ready for the students,” Retief said. “If you’d like to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid on.”
“Thanks,” said Karsh. “They’ll stay here until take-off time. Can’t have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about going over the hill.” He hiccupped. “I mean they might play hookey.”
“We’ve scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That’s a long wait. MUDDLE’s arranged theater tickets and a dinner.”
“Sorry,” Karsh said. “As soon as the baggage gets here, we’re off.” He hiccupped again. “Can’t travel without our baggage, y’know.”
“Suit yourself,” Retief said. “Where’s the baggage now?”
“Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.”
“Maybe you’d like to arrange for a meal for the students here.”
“Sure,” Karsh said. “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you join us?” Karsh winked. “And bring a few beers.”
“Not this time,” Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging from Customs. “They seem to be all boys,” he commented. “No female students?”
“Maybe later,” Karsh said. “You know, after we see how the first bunch is received.”
Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.
“Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound for?”
“Why, the University at d’Land, of course.”
“Would that be the Technical College?”
Miss Furkle’s mouth puckered. “I’m sure I’ve never pried into these details.”
“Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?” Retief said. “Personally, I’m curious as to just what it is these students are travelling so far to study—at Corps expense.”
“Mr. Magnan never—”
“For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leaves me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for a world with no classrooms for them…a world in need of tractors. But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.”
“Well!” Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. “I hope you’re not questioning Mr. Magnan’s wisdom!”
“About Mr. Magnan’s wisdom there can be no question,” Retief said. “But never mind. I’d like you to look up an item for me. How many tractors will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?”
“Why, that’s entirely MEDDLE business,” Miss Furkle said. “Mr. Magnan always—”
“I’m sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.”
* * * *
Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the Corps Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored over indices.
“Can I help you?” someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Retief said. “I’m looking for information on a mining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.”
“You won’t find it in the industrial section,” the librarian said. “Come along.” Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit section lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, plugged it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored vehicle.
“That’s the model WV,” she said. “It’s what is known as a continental siege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.”
“There must be an error somewhere,” Retief said. “The Bolo model I want is a tractor. Model WV M-1—”
“Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for demolition work. That must be what confused you.”
“Probably—among other things. Thank you.”
Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. “I have the information you wanted,” she said. “I’ve had it for over ten minutes. I was under the impression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—”
“Sure,” Retief said. “Shoot. How many tractors?”
“Five hundred.”
“Are you sure?”
Miss Furkle’s chins quivered. “Well! If you feel I’m incompetent—”
“Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.”
“Was there anything further?” Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.
“I sincerely hope not,” Retief said.
III
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