The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer

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      “A most generous offer,” said Magnan. “Frankly, I was astonished. I think perhaps we’ve judged the Groaci too harshly.”

      “I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it,” said Retief. “And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups are on the way out.”

      Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. “I—ah—have explained to the press that last night’s—ah—”

      “Fiasco.”

      “—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the presumed death of, uh, Slop.”

      “The Fustians understand,” said Retief. “Whonk wasn’t kidding about ceremonial vengeance.”

      “The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,” said Magnan. “I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less formal….”

      “The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci,” said Retief. “She was already in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display. I think that should be all the aide the Groaci’s memoires will need to keep their tentacles off Fust.”

      “But diplomatic usage—”

      “Then, too, the less that’s put in writing, the less they can blame you for, if anything goes wrong.”

      “That’s true,” said Magnan, lips pursed. “Now you’re thinking constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet.” He smiled expansively.

      “Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me.” Retief stood up. “I’m taking a few weeks off…if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is good.”

      “But there are some extremely important matters coming up,” said Magnan. “We’re planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—”

      “Count me out. All groups give me an itch.”

      “Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are ourselves a group.”

      “Uh-huh,” Retief said.

      Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the hall and closed the door gently behind him.

CULTURAL EXCHANGE

      Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.

      I

      Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered beret from the clothes tree. “I’m off now, Retief,” he said. “I hope you’ll manage the administrative routine during my absence without any unfortunate incidents.”

      “That seems a modest enough hope,” Retief said. “I’ll try to live up to it.”

      “I don’t appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division,” Magnan said testily. “When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I fancy I’ve made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.”

      “In that case, let’s leave it to Miss Furkle. I’ll take a couple of weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure to bear.”

      “I assume you jest, Retief,” Magnan said sadly. “I should expect even you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may be the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into more cultivated channels.”

      “I see they’re sending two thousand students to d’Land,” Retief said, glancing at the Memo for Record. “That’s a sizable sublimation.”

      Magnan nodded. “The Bogans have launched no less than four military campaigns in the last two decades. They’re known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.”

      “Breaking and entering,” Retief said. “You may have something there. But I’m wondering what they’ll study on d’Land. That’s an industrial world of the poor but honest variety.”

      “Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,” Magnan said. “Our function is merely to bring them together. See that you don’t antagonize the Bogan representative. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomatic restraint—not your strong point, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

      A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. “What is it, Miss Furkle?”

      “That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.” On the small desk screen, Miss Furkle’s meaty features were compressed in disapproval.

      “This fellow’s a confounded pest. I’ll leave him to you, Retief,” Magnan said. “Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.”

      “If I’d thought of that, I’d have worn my other suit,” Retief said.

      Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle’s button.

      “Send the bucolic person in.”

      * * * *

      A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket, stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at sight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and held out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face to face. The newcomer’s jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.

      Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.

      “That’s nice knuckle work, mister,” the stranger said, massaging his hand. “First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I started it, I guess.” He grinned and sat down.

      “What can I do for you?” Retief said.

      “You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were all ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I’m Hank Arapoulous. I’m a farmer. What I wanted to see you about was—” He shifted in his chair. “Well, out on Lovenbroy we’ve got a serious problem. The wine crop is just about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow…?”

      “No,” Retief said. “Have a cigar?” He pushed a box across the desk. Arapoulous took one. “Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,” he said, puffing the cigar alight. “Only mature every twelve years. In between, the vines don’t need a lot of attention, so our time’s mostly our own. We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms. Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—”

      “Sounds very pleasant,” Retief said. СКАЧАТЬ