“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’ 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 some 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 would have 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.
“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 foolin’?”
“I hope not.” He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, and 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 travelling 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. 2nn 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, we’d better get down to the port, Hank. I think I’d like to see the students off personally.”
* * *
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 shipment,” 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 there, but the Armaments Office will have a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eye out for the real 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, his arms waving.
“Hi there, Mr. Gulver,” Retief called. “How’s Boge’s business coming along?”
“Piracy!” Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief. “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 grey 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 what? I . . .” Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears. “Armaments . . . ?”
“The only 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 and signaled frantically. Three heavyset men in identical drab suits detached themselves from the wall and crossed to the group.
“Take this man,” Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at him dazedly.
“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 . . . yes,” Gulver said.
Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, then 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.”
“By the way,” Retief said. “There was another funny mix-up. There were some tractors—for industrial use, you’ll recall. I believe you co-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. They were erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. I saved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to have them off-loaded at d’Land.”
“D’Land! You’ve put CSU’s in the hands of Boge’s bitterest enemies . . . ?”
“But they’re only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn’t that correct?”
“That’s . . . correct.” Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. “Hold the ships!” he yelled. “I’m canceling the student exchange.”
His voice was drowned out by the rumble as the first of the monster transports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by the second. Retief watched them fade out of sight, then turned to Gulver.
“They’re off,” he said. “Let’s hope they get a liberal education.”
* * *
Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tall figure, appearing on the knoll above him, waved.
“Retief!” Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope. “I heard you were here—and I’ve got news for you. You won the final day’s picking competition. Over two hundred bushels! That’s a record! Let’s get on over to the garden, shall we? Sounds like the celebration’s about to start.”