“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, “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 obligations to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.”
“Well!” Miss Furkle snapped, her 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 doubts,” 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, and followed a corridor to the Corps Library. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogs and 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 picture of 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 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 its power swivel and hip-u-matic contour, Retief leafed through a folder labeled “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, then 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, asking for the Commercial attaché.
“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, Mr. 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. 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 trans-shipment. We’ve gotten ourselves into a difficult situation in our balance of payments. This is an accommodation to a group with which we have 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.”
“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 trans-shipment 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 halfway 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 and 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.”
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?”
“Three 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 summery of what MEDDLE has been shipping lately.”
Miss Furkle bridled. “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.”