Retief at Large (3 page)

            "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-l—"

            "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.

            Leaning
back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel and hip-u-matic contour, 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 by 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."