"What 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