The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “What it is, Governor Wingas,” Phule said, “is I think we may be in a situation where we might be of mutual benefit to each other.”

  The governor’s hopes solidified into reality. He had heard enough pitches for favoritism that he easily recognized the roundabout approach. It was strange, but people rarely came right out with their requests … or offers. You simply had to wait them out while they worked themselves up to their final approach. The only question left in his mind at this point was how large a contribution Phule was prepared to offer. That, and how long it was going to take him to get to the bottom line.

  “That’s what politics is all about,” he said cagily.

  The commander was looking pointedly around the room, his eyes dwelling on the leather-bound books and original artwork that festooned the walls.

  “This certainly is a nice place you have here, Governor.”

  “Thank you. We …”

  “Though probably not as nice as that town house over by Altair where your wife is living.”

  Despite his resolve to be patient, the governor felt a stab of annoyance at the mention of his personal holding … and of his wife.

  “Yes, yes. Now then, just how large a campaign contribution are we talking about here?”

  “Contribution?” Phule frowned. “I think there’s some mistake here, Governor. I wasn’t talking about making a contribution to your … campaign. Not when you’re already living beyond your means.”

  Wingas purpled. “Who says I’m living beyond my means?” he demanded.

  “Not ‘who,’ Governor,” the commander said. “More like ‘what’—specifically your current loan application. Frankly, if you don’t get it, I’d be surprised if you stayed out of bankruptcy for the rest of the year.”

  “That’s just a consolidation loan, so I can … Hey! Wait a minute! That information is supposed to be confidential! What right have you got to go poking around my personal finances?”

  “Oh, the information is confidential, all right,” Phule assured him. “I just happen to be on the board of the bank that’s reviewing your application, and in that capacity I’m supposed to use my best judgment in appraising the risk involved in major loans, which I’m afraid your loan qualifies as.”

  The governor slumped back in his chair as if he had been struck.

  “Are you trying to tell me that unless I give the Legion the honor guard contract, you’ll veto my loan approval?”

  “Let’s just say it would be difficult not to factor it into my assessment of your judgment and reliability.” The commander smiled.

  “I see.”

  “However, I’d like to clarify something you just said. I’m not asking you to hand the Legion the contract on a platter. Just give them an equal chance with the Regular Army to earn the assignment.”

  Wingas cocked his head to one side, looking at Phule through narrowed eyes.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Captain, why not just push for the assignment flat out? I’m not in much of a position to argue with you.”

  “That’s a fair question, Governor,” the commander said. “You see, I’m trying to build my company’s confidence in itself. If they can earn that contract in a fair competition with the Regular Army, or even make a decent showing for themselves, their confidence should increase. Buying the contract, or pressuring you into giving it to them, would tend to have the opposite effect. It would give every indication that I believed the only way they could get the job is if I bought it for them. The truth is, I have every confidence in my troops that in an open, fair competition, they can perform as well or better than anything the Regular Army can offer.”

  “Interesting,” the governor murmured thoughtfully. He stared out the window, then shook his head.

  “Nope. I can’t do it. Since you’ve got a gun to my head, Captain, I might as well be honest with you. Normally I’d take your money, then get back to you with a message that I had been outmaneuvered. The way things are, though, you’d probably take it as a double cross and shit all over my loan application. The actual situation is that I can’t help your boys, even enough to give them a chance. I’ve already signed the contract with the Regular Army for the job, and I can’t get out of it if I wanted to.”

  “Oh, I expected that, Governor,” Phule said easily. “I believe there is one loophole that you could wiggle out of … if you were so inclined, that is.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, the settlement ordinance that forbids the unilateral contracting of services without the review of competitive bids, of course.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall any such—”

  “As a matter of fact, I happen to have a copy of the ordinance right here, sir.”

  The commander produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and set it on the desk in front of the governor.

  “You’ll notice that it’s signed by the members on the Settlement Council and that it’s dated a week before your contract with the Regular Army … sir.”

  Wingas made no move to pick up the document. Instead, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Phule.

  “Captain … why do I find myself thinking that if I were to call for the original of this document, I’d find that some of the signatures on it would still be wet?”

  “I believe I did mention that I had to make a couple extra stops before I called on you this evening,” the commander pointed out levelly.

  The governor threw up his hands in theatric surrender.

  “All right! I give up! When the Army gets here, we’ll set up a competition where you and your thugs will have a chance at the contract! Is that all, or do you want my dog, too? I don’t have a daughter.”

  “That will be all, Governor Wingas,” Phule said, rising and reclaiming the paper from the governor’s desk. “Needless to say, I’m glad we had this little talk. I was sure we’d be able to work things out.”

  “Captain Jester!”

  The governor’s voice stopped him with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Sir?”

  “Have you ever considered running for public office?”

  “Me, sir? No.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Journal #121

  In reviewing my entries thus far, I notice they give the impression that my employer was always on top of things and anticipated every contingency. Such was not the case. He was certainly exceptional when it came to adapting quickly to situations or covering when surprised, but surprised he was … more often than he would ever care to admit.

  I can state this unequivocally, as it was my privilege to be present on more than one occasion when he was clearly (to my eye) caught flat-footed.

  * * *

  The company’s new facility, or The Club, as the Legionnaires took to calling it, was certainly no comedown from the comfort they had enjoyed during their stay at the Plaza. In addition to the already referenced confidence course and firing range, it had its own swimming pool and sauna, a moderate-sized gymnasium, and enough rooms to accommodate a small convention. As it evolved, however, the main gathering point for the Legionnaires was the combination dining hall, meeting room, and cocktail lounge. With its comfortable sofas and fireplaces amid the widely scattered tables, it proved to be ideal for socializing during off-duty hours, which in turn made it the pivotal point for dispensing or collecting information or gossip that wasn’t available through normal channels.

  * * *

  Phule paused for a moment before seating himself for breakfast, surveying again the bustle of activity in the dining hall. To his eye, it was apparent that there was something afoot this morning. The Legionnaires were huddled together in groups at various tables around the room, their heads close together as they murmured back and forth while poring over something. Occasional snickers erupted, and more than a few speculative glances were directed his way … and there was obvious nudging with elbows as his presence was noted.

  That the commander found this conduct puz
zling and more than a little curious went without saying. Their general manner was that of school kids sneaking a peek at a frog which had been smuggled into class, all the while wondering what the teacher would do when she discovered its presence. The trouble was, for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what would inspire this behavior in his own motley crew. Finally he gave up trying to speculate and sank into a chair at his butler’s table.

  “Good morning, Beeker,” he said absently, still peering around the room. Were it not for his preoccupation, he might have noticed that his butler never glanced up from the Port-A-Brain he was bent over.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Tell me, Beek … the troops tell you things they won’t tell me … if it isn’t a breach of confidence, do you have any idea what has everybody wound up this morning?”

  “I believe I could make a fairly accurate guess.”

  Phule broke off his surveillance and turned his gaze to Beeker, only to find himself studying the top of that notable’s head.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  The butler tore his eyes from the computer screen to meet his employer’s gaze with ill-concealed amusement.

  “I believe it also explains the sizable donation Brandy made to the company fund … the one you found so puzzling.”

  “Look, Beek. Are you going to tell me or—”

  “I believe it involves this … sir,” Beeker said deadpan as he swiveled the computer screen around to share with the commander.

  The screen displayed a page from a magazine, but the reduced size did not affect the impact of the banner headlines superimposed on the picture:

  HELL’S BELLES

  THE GIRLS OF PHULE’S COMPANY COME IN SMALL, MEDIUM, AND (VERY) LARGE!!

  Sprawled across the page, in what might be politely referred to as their “natural splendor,” were the all too recognizable figures of Brandy, Super Gnat, and … Mother!

  Beeker watched his employer’s face intently for any sign of surprise or alarm, but Phule’s expression was as noncommittal as it was when reviewing the profit/loss statement of a company he was considering acquiring. The only clue that there was anything abnormal in his reaction was the length of time he spent studying the display, and it would require someone as familiar with his normal patterns as Beeker to spot even that. Phule was usually able to assimilate information and make decisions at a glance, yet in this situation he stared at the screen as if it was a busted flush he could change by willpower alone.

  “I could download it and run an enlarged hard copy if you’d like … sir,” the butler said at last, unable to restrain the urge to bait Phule out of his silence.

  “I’m well aware of that, Beeker,” was the calm reply as Phule continued to keep his eyes glued to the screen.

  “It would be no trouble at all,” Beeker pressed relentlessly. “I’ve already had several requests for just that from your Legionnaires, so one or two copies more or less wouldn’t—”

  “Is this local or interstellar?”

  “What do you think … sir?”

  Phule raised his eyes at last to stare sightlessly at the far wall for several moments before answering.

  “I think …”

  “Oh! You’ve seen it! Hi, Beeker!”

  The butler rose politely to greet the company’s first sergeant.

  “Good morning, Brandy. Yes, the captain and I were just discussing it, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really? What do you think, sir? Not bad for an old girl, huh?”

  “It’s … you look good, Brandy,” Phule managed through a strangely tight smile. “You all do.”

  “I think so, too.” The sergeant beamed. “I’ll admit I was a little worried at first, displaying this old heap side by side with the newer models”—she jiggled a little to illustrate her point—“but the proofs turned out great, so I gave it my go-ahead.”

  The butler nodded sagely.

  “Oh yes. The extra copies you asked for will be ready this afternoon.” He smiled.

  “That’s swell! How much will I owe you for those?”

  “Nothing. Consider it to be with my—or more accurately, with the captain’s—compliments. After all, it’s his printer I’m using.”

  “Hey, thanks, Captain. Well, got to go … my public awaits.”

  Phule finally broke his self-imposed silence.

  “Ah … Brandy?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  He started to speak twice before managing to settle his mind on one question.

  “How did you get Mother to go along with this?”

  “Go along with it? It was her idea! Well … later!”

  The two men watched as she strode off to join one of the huddles, waving merrily at the whistles and catcalls that erupted at her approach.

  “It was Mother’s idea … sir,” Beeker repeated blandly.

  Phule smiled vacantly at the room.

  “Jesus wept!” he said, uttering through clenched teeth the closest thing to a profanity that had passed his lips in years. “Do you realize—”

  The beeper on his wrist communicator interrupted him in midsentence—the shrill Emergency Page that’s pitched to grate against the nerves of any intelligent being in the known universe. Phule silenced it the only way the circuits would allow, by opening communication.

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “I really do hate to interrupt you at breakfast, Big Daddy, but there’s a Colonel Battleax on the holo from HQ. She wants to talk to you real bad.”

  “On the way,” Phule said, rising from his seat. “Jester out.”

  “Like the lady said,” Beeker quipped, “your public awaits!”

  * * *

  Following the pattern set during their penthouse HQ days, the communications equipment had been installed in a room next to the commander’s office. The new location had not improved the quality of the holo projections received, however, or the content of their messages.

  “What kind of a silly-ass stunt is this, Captain?”

  The image of Colonel Battleax hovered a few feet above the carpet, though in her vibrant anger it might not have been an error in transmission. The disheveled condition of her uniform, even more than her distraught manner, was an indication that she was transmitting without her usual preliminary preparations.

  “Silly-ass stunt?”

  “Don’t give me that, Jester! I’m talking about the pictorial on your girls in this god-awful T&A magazine!”

  “Oh … that!” Phule said, mentally blessing the marvels of modern magazine distribution. “Yes, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”

  “What’s the problem? Don’t you realize what this does to the dignity of the Legion?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am … dignity? Are we talking about the same Legion?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean, Jester!”

  Years of experience in keeping a calm front in the face of disaster rose to Phule’s assistance.

  “I’m not at all sure I do. I believe it was the colonel herself who said in our last conversation that she was tired of reading media reports of my company in barroom brawls. More to the point, it’s my understanding that the Legionnaires were off duty and on their own time for the photo session in question, and Legion regulations clearly limit the extent to which a commander can interfere with his troops during their off-duty hours … Articles 147 to 162, I believe.”

  The colonel’s image glowered down on him.

  “All right, Jester. If we’re going to play those games, Article 181 specifically forbids Legionnaires from accepting wages, gratuities, or any other form of individual payment for employment or services while enlisted in the Legion—off duty or not!”

  “But Article 214 expressly allows Legionnaires to perform work or service on their own hours, providing the proceeds from those labors are paid directly to or forwarded to their assigned company rather than retained as private gain. I can reassure the colonel that the payment for the Legionnaires’ appearance in the magazine in
question was duly surrendered to the company fund, as is required by the tenants of that article.”

  “I’m familiar with that article as well, Jester,” Battleax shot back, “and I’m somehow not surprised you have it memorized. To my recollection, however, the rest of that article goes on to state that the approval of the company commander is required for such off-duty activity. Are you telling me that you approved this appearance?”

  Phule started to cross his fingers behind his back, then recalled the requirement of not lying, or at least not saying anything that might later be proved a lie. With that in mind, he uncrossed his fingers and phrased his answer very carefully.

  “Colonel Battleax … ma’am … frankly it’s their bodies. I don’t feel I have the right to order them not to display them, any more than it would be my right to order them to display them.”

  The colonel’s image pursed its lips for a moment, then seemed to deflate with a long exhale.

  “I see. All right, Captain. You’re off the hook again. I hope you realize, though, exactly how much I’m going to enjoy explaining this here at HQ.”

  “I realize that, ma’am,” Phule replied, stoically repressing a smile at the mental image, “and I’d like to say that I and the rest of the company appreciate the colonel’s efforts on our behalf.”

  “Well, you can tell that menagerie of yours for me that they can show their appreciation by trying to give me a few less items to explain. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll definitely pass that along.”

  “Very well. Battleax out.”

  The transmission did not break off immediately, and for a moment Phule thought he saw a grin flash across the colonel’s face as her image vanished.

  * * *

  Perhaps the most puzzling thing to me has always been that successful people invariably seem surprised by their own success. As a case in point, my employer had taken over the Omega Company with the express idea of building it into an effective unit. He planned to do this by raising the Legionnaires’ self-esteem, and worked ceaselessly toward that goal. When his labor finally began to bear fruit, however, it seemed to take him totally unawares.