by Keith Laumer
“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 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.”
The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. “MUDDLE, Retief speaking….”
Arapoulous’s brown face appeared on the desk screen.
“How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?”
“Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.”
In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. “Sorry if I’m rushing you, Retief,” he said. “But have you got anything for me?”
Retief waved at the wine bottles. “What do you know about Croanie?”
“Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoon time. Over a foot long.”
“You on good terms with them?”
“Sure, I guess so. Course, they’re pretty thick with Boge.”
“So?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here a dozen years back. They’d’ve made it too, if they hadn’t had a lot of bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they’re easy game.”
Miss Furkle buzzed. “I have your lists,” she said shortly.
“Bring them in, please.”
* * * *
The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eye and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.
“What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash,” Arapoulous observed. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.
“How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?” Retief inquired.
Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.
“A hundred would help,” he said. “A thousand would be better. Cheers.”
“What would you say to two thousand?”
“Two thousand? Retief, you’re not fooling?”
“I hope not.” He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked for the dispatch clerk.
“Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that contingent of Bogan students. They’re traveling aboard the two CDT transports. I’m interested in the baggage that goes with the students. Has it arrived yet? Okay, I’ll wait.”
Jim came back to the phone. “Yeah, Retief, it’s here. Just arrived. But there’s a funny thing. It’s not consigned to d’Land. It’s ticketed clear through to Lovenbroy.”
“Listen, Jim,” Retief said. “I want you to go over to the warehouse and take a look at that baggage for me.”
Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. The level in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned to the phone.
“Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on. Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—”
“It’s okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim, I’m going to ask you to do something more for me. I’m covering for a friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn’t want word to get out, you understand. I’ll send along a written change order in the morning that will cover you officially. Meanwhile, here’s what I want you to do….”
Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.
“As soon as I get off a couple of TWX’s, I think we’d better get down to the port, Hank. I think I’d like to see the students off personally.”
IV
Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “There’s some funny business with my baggage consignment. They won’t let me see it! I’ve got a feeling it’s not being loaded.”
“You’d better hurry, Mr. Karsh,” Retief said. “You’re scheduled to blast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?”
“Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren’t moving without it!”
“No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr. Karsh?” Retief said blandly. “Still, if you’re worried—” He turned to Arapoulous.
“Hank, why don’t you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and…ah…take care of him?”
“I know just how to handle it,” Arapoulous said.
The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. “I caught the tractor equipment,” he said. “Funny kind of mistake, but it’s okay now. They’re being off-loaded at d’Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He said they weren’t looking for any students.”
“The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage was consigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office will have a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eye out for the luggage. No telling where it’s gotten to.”
“Here!” a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in a tight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.
“Hi there, Mr. Gulver,” Retief called. “How’s Boge’s business coming along?”
“Piracy!” Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. “You’ve got a hand in this, I don’t doubt! Where’s that Magnan fellow?”
“What seems to be the problem?” Retief said.
“Hold those transports! I’ve just been notified that the baggage shipment has been impounded. I’ll remind you, that shipment enjoys diplomatic free entry!”
“Who told you it was impounded?”
“Never mind! I have my sources!”
Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. “Are you Mr. Retief of CDT?” one said.
“That’s right.”
“What about my baggage!” Gulver cut in. “And I’m warning you, if those ships lift without—”
“These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission,” Retief said. “Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?”
“From where? I—” Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears. “Armaments?”
“The onl
y shipment I’ve held up seems to be somebody’s arsenal,” Retief said. “Now if you claim this is your baggage….”
“Why, impossible,” Gulver said in a strained voice. “Armaments? Ridiculous. There’s been an error….”
* * * *
At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases of guns. “No, of course not,” he said dully. “Not my baggage. Not my baggage at all.”
Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.
“What—what’s this?” Gulver spluttered. “Karsh? What’s happened?”
“He had a little fall. He’ll be okay,” Arapoulous said.
“You’d better help him to the ship,” Retief said. “It’s ready to lift. We wouldn’t want him to miss it.”
“Leave him to me!” Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. “I’ll see he’s dealt with.”
“I couldn’t think of it,” Retief said. “He’s a guest of the Corps, you know. We’ll see him safely aboard.”
Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identical drab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.
“Take this man,” Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at him dazedly, reached up to rub his head.
“We take our hospitality seriously,” Retief said. “We’ll see him aboard the vessel.”
Gulver opened his mouth.
“I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books in your luggage,” Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. “You’ll be busy straightening out the details of the mix-up. You’ll want to avoid further complications.”
“Ah. Ulp. Yes,” Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.
Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.
“Your man—he’s going too?” Gulver blurted.
“He’s not our man, properly speaking,” Retief said. “He lives on Lovenbroy.”
“Lovenbroy?” Gulver choked. “But…the…I….”
“I know you said the students were bound for d’Land,” Retief said. “But I guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. The course plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You’ll be glad to know they’re still headed there—even without the baggage.”
“Perhaps,” Gulver said grimly, “perhaps they’ll manage without it.”
