 Where are the two thousand students being shipped to?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered beret from the clothes tree. "When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Frankly, I question the wisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. "I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land," Retief said, glancing at the Memo for Record. "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. 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. And remember: here at Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you." 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. The wine crop is just about ready. Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—" "Sounds very pleasant," Retief said. We've turned all the land area we've got into parks and farms. 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. 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. That's the music-writing season. 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...." Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn't take long. But this year...." Course, I'm only twenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crusted port." They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than we did.
 Croanie
 MUDDLE  Earth  Boge  Croanie