"Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe's fatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker."
"Try this." Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork, sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel.
"Mister, where'd you get that?"
"The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would you concede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peace guarantee?"
At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief. "We'll make any reasonable deal," he said. "I guess they got as much right here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split. That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side."
"What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them the desert?"
Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. "Keep talkin', mister," he said. "I think you got yourself a deal."
Consul Passwyn glanced up at Retief, went on perusing a paper.
"Sit down, Retief," he said absently. "I thought you were over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat, or whatever they call that desert."