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. Whiffle—"
"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
.. .
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. Whiffle—"
"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
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