we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loan to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we’d repay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—”
“Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci nose-flute players—”
“Can they pick grapes?”
“Nope. Anyway, they can’t stand the daylight. Have you talked this over with the Labor Office?”
“Sure did. They said they’d fix us up with all the electronics specialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands. Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you’d have thought I was trying to buy slaves.”
The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle’s features appeared on the desk screen.
“You’re due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes,” she said. “Then afterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.”
“Thanks.” Retief finished his glass, stood. “I have to run, Hank,” he said. “Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something. Check with me day after tomorrow. And you’d better leave the bottles here. Cultural exhibits, you know.”
* * * *
II
As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table.
“Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?”
Whaffle blinked. “You’re the fellow who’s filling in for Magnan, over at MUDDLE,” he said. “Properly speaking, equipment grants are the sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and Exchanges.” He pursed his lips. “However, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. They’ll be receiving heavy mining equipment.”
“Drill rigs, that sort of thing?”
“Strip mining gear.” Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket, blinked at it. “Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLE interested in MEDDLE’s activities?”
“Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It’s just that Croanie cropped up earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on—”
“That’s not MEDDLE’s affair, sir,” Whaffle cut in. “I have sufficient problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE’S business.”
“Speaking of tractors,” another man put in, “we over at the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies have been trying for months to get a request for mining equipment for d’Land through MEDDLE—”
“SCROUNGE was late on the scene,” Whaffle said. “First come, first served. That’s our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen.” He strode off, briefcase under his arm.
“That’s the trouble with peaceful worlds,” the SCROUNGE committeeman said. “Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is out to pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assist peace-loving d’Land—comes to naught.” He shook his head.
“What kind of university do they have on d’Land?” asked Retief. “We’re sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an institution.”
“University? D’Land has one under-endowed technical college.”
“Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?”
“Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax the facilities of the college.”
“I wonder if the Bogans know that?”
“The Bogans? Why, most of d’Land’s difficulties are due to the unwise trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students indeed!” He snorted and walked away.
* * * *
Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode the elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and ordered a beer.
A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.
“Happy days,” he said.
“And nights to match.”
“You said it.” He gulped half his beer. “My name’s Karsh. Mr. Karsh. Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place waiting….”
“You meeting somebody?”
“Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one on me.”
“Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?”
“I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a cradle-robber. You know—” he turned to Retief—“not one of those kids is over eighteen.” He hiccupped. “Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?”
“Lots of times. You’re meeting the students, are you?”
The young fellow blinked at Retief. “Oh, you know about it, huh?”
“I represent MUDDLE.”
Karsh 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
