The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “I see,” Phule said, pursing his lips. “I don’t see where there would be any problem in letting you do that. Let me think about it and get back to you with my decision.”

  “Very good, sir. If I might add, however, I assume that Lieutenant Rembrandt will be in civilian garb for her mission?”

  The commander nodded. “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right, Beeker. She’d have to be. Otherwise the media would catch wind of it and tip our hand before we even got started.”

  “Well, sir, I, for one, haven’t seen the lieutenant in anything except her Legionnaire wardrobe. While I have no reason to doubt the extent of her civilian wardrobe or her ability to supplement it as necessary, I have no basis to be confident of it, either.”

  “Point taken, Beeker. Like I say, let me think on it. Just remember …”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Whoops! There’s my first victim. Let them in, will you, Beek? On your way out?”

  “Yes, sir … but first, sir …”

  “Yes?”

  “If I might draw your attention to the time?”

  Again Phule glanced at his watch. “Okay. So?”

  “It is my understanding that you’re expecting to interview some fifty volunteers tonight?”

  “If that many show up, yes.”

  “Might I point out, sir, that if each interview only takes ten minutes, it will take more than eight hours to finish them all?”

  Phule sighed wearily. “I know, but it’s important that I handle this as soon as possible … as you yourself pointed out not too long ago.”

  “Of course, sir. I was merely suggesting that you might wish to make an effort to keep each individual interview as brief as possible, considering the cumulative time involved … resist the temptation to try to settle details tonight that could be handled at leisure over the next few days. While I’m aware that it’s my favorite lost cause, you do need to sleep occasionally … sir.”

  The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Beek … but no promises. Sometimes I have to go with the flow.”

  “I know, sir.” The butler sighed. “But I felt I had to at least make the effort.”

  * * *

  “Evenin’, Cap’n.”

  Chocolate Harry, the company’s supply sergeant, slouched against the door frame, casually shooting a salute at his commander with his index finger.

  “I’ll keep this short, ’cause it looks like you got quite a mob shapin’ up out there. Just put me down as one of your scouts.”

  “All right, C.H.” Phule nodded, jotting a note on his pad. “I’ll admit I’m a little surprised, though. I didn’t think you’d want to be separated from your inventory.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not wild about it,” Harry said, “but I figure most of it will be packed and stored anyway for this assignment, and my boys can handle that easy enough. ’Sides, I don’t think there’s anyone in this outfit who can pass for a civilian as easy as me … ’specially when it comes to movin’ through the less legal portions of polite society.”

  He winked broadly at this. While it was normal in the Legion to keep one’s pre-Legion life a secret, Harry was very open about the fact that when he joined up he had been on the run from associates who, if not criminal, were at least outlaw.

  The commander did not return the smile.

  “That brings up an interesting point, C.H. Is it going to be safe for you to operate out of uniform?”

  “I’ve given that some thought myself, Cap’n,” the sergeant admitted. “There shouldn’t be any special trouble for me on Lorelei … or if it pops up, it won’t be any more dangerous for me out of uniform than in.”

  Phule hesitated for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

  “All right, then. Check back with me in the next couple days and we’ll start working up a cover for you.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry none about that,” Harry said, uncoiling from the door frame as he got ready to depart. “Except for maybe a little travelin’ cash, I figure I’ll do my own job huntin’. That way, if HQ wants to complain about it later, they can’t get on your case as an accomplice.”

  * * *

  “Sergeant Escrima … reporting for volunteering.”

  Phule’s smile came easily as he returned the ramrod-stiff salute. He had a genuine fondness for the company’s feisty little mess sergeant, though perhaps “feisty” was a poor description. Escrima was easily the deadliest fighter in the company, especially with sticks or any cut-and-thrust weapon.

  “Stand easy, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll admit I’m glad to see you volunteering. I rather hoped you would.”

  “Mmmm … Company stay in hotel, nothing for cook to do.” Escrima shrugged, relaxing his pose only slightly.

  “My thoughts exactly.” The commander nodded, jotting another note on his pad. “I assume you’re interested in us finding you work in the restaurant kitchen?”

  The cook gave a quick nod. “Things can go wrong in a kitchen—too many things. Need someone there to watch for”—he gestured with his hand slightly as he searched for the right word—“too many accidents. Bad for food … bad for business.”

  Phule leaned back in his chair.

  “Now, you realize that you probably won’t be head cook or chef for the casino hotel … that you’ll probably have to report to someone else.”

  Escrima hesitated for a moment, then bobbed his head again.

  “Good,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “Sometimes it’s good not to be in charge. Maybe … how you say … learn something new for a change.”

  The commander shook his head slightly. “I was thinking more in terms of possible trouble,” he said. “Say, for example, if someone told you to do something you didn’t want to … or maybe even criticized your cooking techniques.”

  Escrima’s dark eyes glittered for a moment. The cook’s temper was legendary, and he was particularly sensitive to slights regarding his culinary skills. In fact, his presence in what was once the problem company of the Legion was due to several such spirited discussions … which led to hospitalization of his critics.

  “I promise, Captain. No trouble … I never start trouble.”

  * * *

  “Do you mind if we do this together, Captain? I think it will save time.”

  Phule could not keep the surprise off his face.

  “Brandy … Super Gnat. Certainly. Come in together if you wish.”

  The two women filed into the office, giving the sketchiest of salutes before seating themselves in front of their commander’s desk. Though once standoffish toward each other, they had grown into a close friendship since the company was reorganized and reoriented.

  “The reason we’re both here,” Brandy said, taking the lead, “is that we figure you’ll have the same objection to either of us volunteering. This way, we only have to go over it once … win or lose.”

  The commander nodded. “Very well. Proceed.”

  “The way we see it,” the top sergeant continued, “you’ll figure that we can’t go under cover because of that pinup spread that we did with Mother—that we’d be recognized as part of the company.”

  “It’s a factor I’d have to consider,” Phule agreed. “Also, the fact that Super Gnat represented us in the fencing match with the Red Eagles, which was covered by the media.”

  “I was wearing a mask for most of that,” Super Gnat said, waving a hand in vague dismissal.

  “True, but you weren’t wearing a mask for that photo session … or much of anything else, as I recall.”

  “That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Brandy interrupted hastily. “We wanted to make the point that women can change their appearance dramatically with a change of hairstyle or color, or makeup, or wardrobe.”

  “Or just by putting our clothes on,” Super Gnat added with a bawdy wink. “Tell me the truth, sir. When you look at one of those nudie photo spreads, how mu
ch time do you spend looking at the woman’s face? Would you recognize her if you saw her on the street? Without a staple through her navel?”

  “I … I’ll admit I never gave the subject much thought,” Phule said. Though he tried not to show it, the conversation was making him uncomfortable … just as the photo spread in question had when it first appeared. “If we accept for the moment that you can change your appearance sufficiently to avoid recognition, though, what would you do? Do you have any specific covers in mind?”

  The Gnat shrugged. “No problem there. I used to do a little waitressing from time to time, both dinner and cocktail. I’d probably prefer cocktail waitressing, if given a choice. They circulate through the casino rather than stand duty just in the dining room, and the kind of action you’re watching for will probably be going on at the tables, not over a meal. Besides, the tips are better from drinkers.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of working with the housekeeping staff,” Brandy supplied. “That photo spread was fun, but I don’t really see myself wearing one of those peekaboo outfits day in and day out. Having a legitimate excuse to be in and out of the guest rooms wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

  The two looked at their commander expectantly.

  “Actually,” he said slowly, staring at his notepad, “the recognition problem wasn’t my major concern. Super Gnat should be okay, but …” He hesitated, then shrugged and looked at his top sergeant directly. “I’m not quite as comfortable with you going under cover, Brandy. I had been counting on you to help me ride herd on the company while it was standing normal duty. The fact is, Chocolate Harry and Escrima have already volunteered, and the cadre roster is starting to look a little thin even if you stuck around. With you gone …” He let his voice trail off, then shook his head.

  “I can see where that might be a problem, Captain. But …” Brandy hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. “Can I speak candidly, sir?”

  Phule nodded curtly.

  “Well, you know how you got on my case when you first took over about being cynical and not trying? This is the first time in … hell, I don’t know how many years now, that I’ve volunteered for anything. Now that I’m moving, I’d kinda like to see it through. I’m not sure if I’m trying to prove something to you or to myself, but I’d like to give it a shot.”

  The commander pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully at his pad again, then realized there was really nothing to decide. If it came to choosing between making things easier for himself or helping Brandy rebuild her self-esteem, there was only one choice that would be acceptable to him.

  “All right,” he said, raising his eyes to look at them directly. “We’ll tentatively figure you both for undercover volunteers. I’m going to want to see a demonstration of this hair and makeup thing, though. Shall we say, tomorrow afternoon?”

  “No problem, sir … and thank you, sir.”

  The two women rose and saluted, turning toward the door only after their salute was returned.

  “Just one more thing … Super Gnat?”

  The little Legionnaire paused at the doorway at the commander’s words.

  “Sir?”

  “Have you discussed this with Tusk-anini? I don’t mean to meddle, but he’s very devoted to you.”

  At the mention of her partner, the Gnat’s usual easy self-confidence wavered.

  “I …I know, sir … And no, I haven’t. I wanted to see if you figured I was acceptable first … I’ll go talk to him now. I think he’ll understand. He may be devoted to me, but he practically worships you. You were the one who called for volunteers, and I’d be willing to bet he’d put his hand into a fire up to his elbow if you asked him to. He might not like my volunteering, but it’ll be mostly because he can’t volunteer himself. Give him some time, and he’ll get over it … but even if he doesn’t, he won’t let it interfere with his performance.”

  Rather than being reassured, Phule again felt the pangs of discomfort at this testimonial.

  “All right, Gnat. I’ll leave it to you. Just let me know if—”

  “Say, Captain … Excuse me, Gnat.”

  Brandy had just poked her head in the door, interrupting the conversation.

  “What is it, Top?”

  “I was thinking about what you were saying—about being thin on cadre for normal duty. Anyway, it occurred to me that you might want to give Moustache a try as acting sergeant.”

  “Moustache?” The commander frowned, searching his memory.

  “He got transferred in just before you did,” Brandy supplied. “I’m not surprised you can’t place him. He kind of blends in most of the time. It’s my guess, though, that he’s had some previous service time in the Regular Army, and probably as more than a line soldier.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Brandy. Thanks!”

  “You want me to get him for you? He’s outside here in the volunteer line.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll handle him when his turn comes.”

  * * *

  “So, anyway, I was thinking you might want to use me as a washroom attendant or a doorman, sir. I’d probably be a bit less conspicuous than most of the lads—what with my age and all.”

  Phule was studying the figure in front of him, noting details more than he was listening to the Legionnaire’s words.

  The man was above average height and barrel-chested, though his stern posture probably exaggerated both features. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball, except for the bright red handlebar moustache that dominated his face and gave him his Legion name. It occurred to Phule that that facial ornament was doubtlessly dyed, since, judging by the man’s age as stated in his file, it should be white. As it was, the only clue to Moustache’s advanced years was the wrinkled skin of his neck … but even that wasn’t noticeable unless one was actually looking for it.

  “Hmmm?” The commander blinked, suddenly realizing the Legionnaire had reached the end of his statement and was waiting for a response. “Excuse me, Moustache. My mind was wandering for a second there. Actually, I was thinking … are you sure you want to volunteer for undercover work? You … um … seem much more at home in a uniform.”

  It was a clumsy gambit, but Phule was getting tired and was hard-pressed to find a tactful way around the Legion rule against inquiring into a Legionnaire’s history prior to his or her enlistment. Fortunately, Moustache made the job easy.

  “Found me out, did you, sir?” he said, breaking into a sudden smile. “Well, I suppose it was just a matter of time before it came out. Secrets don’t last long in an outfit as tight as this one.”

  “Is that to say that you’ve had military experience prior to your signing on with the Space Legion?” the commander urged.

  “You might say that, sir. Nearly forty years in the Regular Army before they gave me the boot—forced retirement, that is.”

  Startled, Phule glanced at the man’s folder again. By the record, Moustache was well on in his years, but if he had been in the Regular Army for nearly forty years, then he must be at least …

  “Before you say anything, sir, I did shave a few years off my birthday when I filled out my enlistment papers. While the Legion is reputed to accept all applicants, I didn’t want to take the risk of being turned down.”

  “You were really that eager to join up?”

  “Frankly, sir, it was my last hope. You see, sir, when they retired me from the Regular Army, it didn’t take long to find out there wasn’t much of a place for me in civilian life. I was way too old to go into police work, and bein’ a night watchman always struck me as a race to see which gathered dust and cobwebs faster: the guard or the stuff he was supposed to be guarding.”

  “I suppose just taking it easy and enjoying your retirement wasn’t included on your list of options?”

  “Not bloody likely,” the Legionnaire snorted. “The Army always kept me busy—until one of their computers started counting up my birthdays, that is. After years of keeping the lads busy with ‘make
-work’ assignments, the idea of just doing nothing sounded uncomfortably like being dead. I mean, sir, inactive is inactive, whether you’re sittin’ in a rocker or six feet under.”

  “It sounds like you had some rank before you retired,” Phule observed cautiously.

  “Let’s just say I was a noncom and leave it at that, sir. I’ve been trying not to make a big thing of my experience. Seen too many new blokes to an outfit come in ringing the mission bell and preaching to the heathens how they should be doing things. The noncoms you have seem to be doing a right good job, especially since you got them back on track. Truth is, it’s been a bit of a treat for me to be back in the ranks—letting others do the thinking and just following orders.”

  “I see,” Phule said, then reached for his notepad. “Well, Moustache, I’m afraid your vacation is over, as of now. I’m refusing your offer as a volunteer, and instead am assigning you duty as an acting sergeant for this assignment. We’ll see about making it permanent when it’s all over.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

  The Legionnaire snapped into a rigid, parade-ground salute, but Phule did not return it immediately.

  “Just one more thing, Moustache. Excuse me for asking, but exactly what is that accent you have, anyway?”

  “Holo-movie, sir,” the Legionnaire said, flashing another quick smile. “I never could master the Southern American drawl that’s so popular with noncoms, so I settled for the next best thing. Studied every war holo I could find with a proper British sergeant major in it. It may not be authentic, but after forty years, it’s habitual … sir!”

  * * *

  And so it went, hour after hour, volunteer after volunteer.

  True to Beeker’s prediction, even with making an extra effort to keep the interviews brief, it was late even by Phule’s standards when the last Legionnaire had been dealt with. Finally alone, he tried to review his notes, but set them aside with a sigh when his eyes refused to focus.