 Why did Retief want to talk to the drunk?
"Whaffle left here three months ago," Retief said, "leaving me in charge." "Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we avoid with the Groaci. Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carved windowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in the direction of the Terrestrial Consulate General. A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink from the bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze in mid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot. "To enjoy a cooling drink," Retief said in Groacian, squatting down at the edge of the pit. "To not worry," Retief said, irritated. The barkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk, took his arms and helped him to the door. "I've changed my mind," Retief said to the bartender. "To not be angry, fragrant native," Retief said. Retief backed into the opening to a narrow crossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local, who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrow alley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the following Groacian. Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose; Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed. "To not be going anywhere for a few minutes," Retief said.
 He wanted to know what happened nine years ago.
 He wanted someone to talk to on this foreign planet.  He wanted to know why the drunk was mad at him.  He wanted to know what happened nine years ago.  He didn't like how the drunk had treated him.