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. “Where does the Libraries and Education Division come in?”
Arapoulous leaned forward. “We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks can’t spend all their time hybridizing plants. We’ve turned all the land area we’ve got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable forest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy’s a nice place, Mr. Retief.”
“It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—”
“Call me Hank. We’ve got long seasons back home. Five of ’em. Our year’s about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly painting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold. Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it’s the season for woodworkers. Our furniture—”
“I’ve seen some of your furniture,” Retief said. “Beautiful work.”
Arapoulous nodded. “All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil and those sulphates give the woods some color, I’ll tell you. Then comes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun’s getting closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine? That’s the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer’s hot. We stay inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach on Lovenbroy; we’re mostly islands. That’s the drama and symphony time. The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You have the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we’re close to the center of a globular cluster, you know….”
“You say it’s time now for the wine crop?”
“That’s right. Autumn’s our harvest season. Most years we have just the ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn’t take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting new places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a lot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But this year’s different. This is Wine Year.”
Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. “Our wine crop is our big money crop,” he said. “We make enough to keep us going. But this year….”
“The crop isn’t panning out?”
“Oh, the crop’s fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I’m only twenty-eight; I can’t remember but two other harvests. The problem’s not the crop.”
“Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for the Commercial—”
“Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever settled for anything else!”
“It sounds like I’ve been missing something,” said Retief. “I’ll have to try them some time.”
Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. “No time like the present,” he said.
Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.
“Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous,” he said.
“This isn’t drinking. It’s just wine.” Arapoulous pulled the wire retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle. “Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn’t join me.” He winked.
Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. “Come to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint native customs.”
Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked at Arapoulous thoughtfully.
“Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted port.”
“Don’t try to describe it, Mr. Retief,” Arapoulous said. He took a mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. “It’s Bacchus wine, that’s all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.” He pushed the second bottle toward Retief. “The custom back home is to alternate red wine and black.”
* * * *
Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, caught it as it popped up.
“Bad luck if you miss the cork,” Arapoulous said, nodding. “You probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years back?”
“Can’t say that I did, Hank.” Retief poured the black wine into two fresh glasses. “Here’s to the harvest.”
“We’ve