* * *
Thumper’s introduction to Omega Company was progressing at whirlwind speed. In the short time he’d been at the company’s Zenobia Base, he’d already met the first sergeant, who’d shown him to a comfortable barracks room and explained how Omega Company did things. He was going to be paired with one of the other legionnaires on base, not just as a roommate, but as a partner. This was one of Captain Jester’s innovations, though Thumper didn’t quite understand the reason for it. But eventually he’d get it, he knew. He was a smart Lepoid, and had the grades in school to prove it. Things hadn’t gone quite so well in basic training, but that had been his first exposure to mass human psychology. Now he had a better idea what was going on. Or so he thought …
The mess hall was open for the evening meal beginning at 1700 hours, the same as in basic. Here, though, the legionnaires apparently had the option of going to eat at any time between then and 2030, instead of being assigned a set (and usually too short) time slot during which they had to report for their meal. Having had his last meal just before the human hunters’ shuttle landed on Zenobia, Thumper was starved. He finished stowing his gear, washed his paws and combed his whiskers, and stepped out into the corridor, hoping the mess hall was close by—and easy to find.
It was. At the end of the short corridor leading to his barracks room, Thumper turned left and almost immediately saw the double doors of the mess hall in front of him. There was a small group of legionnaires standing around chatting just outside the doors, while a stream of their comrades walked through. Not really knowing anyone yet, Thumper stepped past them and took a tray. He was unavoidably conscious that the conversation in the group behind him had stopped just after he had passed, then resumed in a lower tone.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had caused it. New guy, they were undoubtedly saying. New guy. Well, he was a new guy, here at least. Before long, he’d get a chance to show them just what kind of guy he was. And if he’d learned anything from his last talk with Sergeant Pitbull, he thought they’d be glad to have him on board. Meanwhile, his stomach reminded him, he hadn’t eaten in hours.
There was a food service line ahead of him, with absolutely wonderful aromas wafting out to the nostrils of the waiting legionnaires. Thumper stepped into line and took one of the trays—which, he was surprised to see, was not the ugly standard-issue plastic that everyone in Legion basic had used. Instead, these trays came in a variety of pastel shades with geometrical designs that might actually enhance the user’s enjoyment of eating. Even more surprising, they all managed to be attractively clean, rather than unappealingly sterile. Thumper hadn’t been in the Legion very long, but he already knew enough to recognize that this wasn’t typical of mess halls.
He stepped into line behind a tall legionnaire—almost all of them were a lot taller than he was, but he was used to that, too—and peered over the edge of the counter at the food. There was a selection of raw vegetables, the kind the humans called “salad.” He took a large helping of that, and an equal amount of cooked greens—which, for the first time since he’d joined the Legion, weren’t boiled beyond recognition. He wondered how Omega Company got enough fresh vegetables to supply the mess hall; he hadn’t noticed a garden patch on his way into the base. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one away from the route he’d traveled. It was just a real treat to see fresh veggies once again. It almost felt like home.
Best of all, there was no sergeant standing there to tell him what to take, or how much, either. Omega Company apparently let its legionnaires eat whatever they wanted. That was a really triff idea, thought Thumper. He couldn’t remember a time when there wasn’t somebody telling him what to eat, beginning with his mother. He was ready for a change.
He looked around the room for a place to sit—he’d only met a couple of members of the company so far, so he had nobody in particular to look for. Plenty of tables had empty seats, so he had his choice of dinner companions. Then he caught a whiff of something he hadn’t in his fondest dreams expected to find this far away from home. Carrot cake—his favorite dessert!
Thumper followed the delicious aroma to its source, a serving station piled high with desserts of all kinds. He recognized some of them as distant relations of the offerings in the mess hall back in basic training—obviously far more palatable, even to his nonhuman taste buds. But it was the carrot cake that he craved, that promised his taste buds all the delights of home.
He was so intrigued by the aroma that he didn’t even notice when the trouble started.
* * *
“Well, boys, it looks like we’re not makin’ a whole heap o’ progress with this,” said Rev, setting down his glass. “I reckon we ought to call a halt and go get some food in our bellies.”
Do-Wop knocked back his half-full glass of beer and set it down with a wistful look. “If you say so, man,” he said. “Hey, I was just gettin’ started. But a little chow don’t sound so bad, when you come right down to it.”
Sushi, who’d had only one drink, stood up and said, “I’d even settle for a big chow, but I don’t think Escrima cooks that recipe. I suspect some of the guys would vote to put Barky in the stewpot, though.”
“Now, now, son,” said Rev. “The King wouldn’t like to hear you talk that way about a fellow star, ‘specially not a dog. You talk nice about Barky, y’hear? That lil’ ol’ pup’s a surefire hit anytime he’s on a vidscreen.”
“Star or no star, he better stay away from me,” said Do-Wop. “C’mon, if we’re gonna stand around and jabber, I’m gettin’ me another brew.”
“Hey, I’ve been ready,” said Sushi, punching Do-Wop in the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go find out what Escrima’s cooking.”
The three of them entered the dining hall together, took trays, and made their selections. Rev and Sushi went for chicken (there was a choice of Southern fried or curried) with rice, while Do-Wop loaded up his plate with butterfly pasta in a rich alfredo sauce and crisp broccoli tips.
The trio were on their way to the drink station when the trouble started.
Sushi was the first to notice anything out of the ordinary. “Who’s the new guy over there?” he asked, pointing to the dessert line. The others turned their heads to see what he was talking about. There was a small figure in a regulation Legion jumpsuit, considerably less dashing than the special uniform Captain Jester had ordered for Omega Company to wear. Sushi just barely had time to notice that the new company member (he assumed that was what the newcomer had to be) had long floppy ears when a familiar sound came from behind them.
“Woof! Woof!” said Barky, the Environmental Dog, baring his fangs and charging full speed in the direction of the little legionnaire.
Chief Inspector Snieff leapt up and called out, “Barky! Sit! Bad dog! Sit!” But nobody, least of all the Environmental Dog, was paying much attention to her at this point.
The three Legionnaires made an altogether praiseworthy effort to get out of the dog’s way, but (inhibited by full trays of food) they were nowhere near nimble enough. As Barky’s well-fed bulk crashed into his shins, Do-Wop’s tray tilted, then tipped directly over, dumping a plateful of steaming hot pasta with alfredo sauce on his legs, the floor, and onto Barky’s bare back. That set off a chorus of woeful howls—from Do-Wop and Barky both.
Barky spun around to find whoever was attacking him. But the wet floor offered no traction, and so the famous Environmental Dog slid full speed into Sushi’s legs. That, inevitably, sent Sushi tumbling into Rev, and both men went down in a heap. At the same time, their trays hit the floor, scattering chicken and rice in all directions. There were gasps and shouts from those within range of the flying food, and all over the mess hall heads turned to see what the disturbance was about. They hadn’t missed anything to speak of; the chain reaction was just beginning to pick up momentum.
Chocolate Harry, going back to the main serving line for seconds, turned his head to look at what was happening behind him and inevitably put his fo
ot in exactly the wrong place—on a stray chicken leg—and went down with a basso profundo shout of “Goddamn son of a bitch!” in an avalanche of table scraps, dishes, and cutlery. One of his forks bounced twice, flipped over one and a half times, and arrived prongs first in the close vicinity of Barky’s tail, sending the galaxywide star Environmental Dog off yelping in the direction of the dessert stand, where Thumper still stood, surveying the catastrophe unfolding around him with eyes growing steadily wider.
One look at Barky was enough to convince Thumper that he had come to the wrong place at the wrong time. With the finely honed reflexes of a recent graduate of Legion basic training, Thumper dropped his own tray and took off for the nearest cover as if his life depended on it. Unfortunately, Barky’s canine instincts were aroused by the sight of something running, and he redoubled his speed in an attempt to catch the fleeing Lepoid. Meanwhile, an infuriated Chocolate Harry had begun gathering up various articles from the floor around him and throwing them (with an obligato of curses truly worthy of a veteran Legion sergeant) in the general direction of the Environmental Dog.
Unfortunately, Harry’s aim was about what one would expect of a Supply sergeant who had moved the trash basket next to his desk so as to avoid bending over to pick up the paper wads that missed their target. One of his hastily flung chicken bones caught Do-Wop square in the chest. Harry couldn’t have picked a worse target on purpose. Never one to back down from a perceived challenge, Do-Wop scooped up a handful of pasta with alfredo sauce and fired it back at Chocolate Harry.
Do-Wop had no better aim than Harry. His improvised missile went far and wide, hitting Double-X (who had just turned to see what was happening) full in the face. The legionnaire dropped his tray and fell backwards into the main food station, knocking it over and scattering the contents across the floor and hitting (among others) Super-Gnat, who had been right behind Double-X.
That was the final spark to set off an explosion. Super-Gnat snatched up a boiled potato and fired it off. The spud hit Do-Wop directly in the snoot. Temporarily blinded, Do-Wop stepped on another gob of alfredo sauce and fell back on top of Rev, who had almost managed to get up on all fours. The pair went down with an impressive splash in the spilled pasta—but not before Do-Wop managed to fire off an unaimed breast of chicken that landed on a nearby table, knocking a pitcher of orange juice onto the laps of Roadkill, Street, and two of the Gambolts. Almost immediately, food was flying in every direction. Half of Omega Mob enthusiastically joined in, and the other half broke for the exits.
Meanwhile, Thumper and Barky were racing around the mess hall as if their lives depended on it, with the AEIOU inspectors following in a dogged attempt to prevent their intergalactic media star from injuring himself. Some of the legionnaires, whether angered at the inspectors’ perceived interference in their operation or simply aroused by the challenge of moving targets, concentrated their fire on the AEIOU team, adding to the already considerable chaos.
Mess Sergeant Escrima, an irascible sort in the best of times, emerged from the galley red-faced, with an enormous cleaver in one hand. He took in the scene in a glance, and let out a thunderous roar in some language that, perhaps fortunately, none of the other members of the company understood. Before he took another step, Barky, the Environmental Dog, bowled headlong into Escrima, knocking him off his feet. Escrima went down into a pile of stewed tomatoes, sputtering curses, and threats of bodily harm. A split second later, he retrieved his cleaver and jumped up to join the chase.
This, of course, was the very moment at which an unsuspecting Captain Jester, A.K.A. Willard Phule, and his loyal butler Beeker chose to enter the mess hall …
Chapter Eleven
Journal #711
A sufficiently obstinate conviction is immune to all demonstrations of its falsity—in fact, they are the best means to harden the conviction, no matter how wrongheaded, into an unshakeable credo. And when two or more persons who hold such convictions come into contact, there is no hope of any such thing as communication or mutual enlightenment. The best one can hope for, in my experience, is to keep collateral damage to an acceptable minimum.
* * *
Predictably enough, Victor Phule was in the High Rollers’ Lounge, where the games were scaled to the ultrarich, and the security discreetly steered away anyone whose pockets weren’t deep enough—although not until they’d had a glimpse of the upper crust. Every nickel-dime punter who walked in the doors of the Fat Chance had a dream of breaking the bank and going home in a private space yacht. Giving them a brief look at the big-time players in action reinforced the glamour that was an essential part of any casino’s appeal. Let ’em dream, as long as they don’t touch, was Tullie Bascomb’s credo. And almost everything in the Fat Chance reflected the veteran casino manager’s words.
Ernie found it very curious that the richest man in the place—there was no question at all that Victor Phule fit that description—was playing the least glamorous game of all, the quantum slots. Ernie wondered about that, and about the fact that the casino had set up a row of slot machines here in a room where the players were more likely to prefer roulette and baccarat. You didn’t need to know very much about the business to see that something funny was going on.
Ernie’s latest theory was that, by ostentatiously playing high-priced slots, Victor Phule hoped to entice other high rollers to drop an occasional token into the machines—which notoriously offered the worst payoffs (or, from the house’s point of view, the highest profits) in any casino. The casino stood to make a substantial gain if it could find a way to make the slots fashionable for the big spenders. A few thousand here, a few thousand there—that could add up to a nice sum of money quickly enough. If that was all that was going on, there wasn’t likely to be any chance for Ernie to get an edge. But if Victor Phule was doing more than just playing the shill … Well, that was what Ernie had come here to find out.
The major flaw in the picture of Phule as a shill was that he totally lacked charisma. If the managers of the Fat Chance wanted to convince patrons that the slots were an exciting way to gamble, they could hardly have picked a worse role model. Pumping his tokens into the machines, shirt-sleeved Victor Phule had all the glamour of a middle-aged file clerk trying to avoid reinjuring a bad paper cut. Unless you knew who he was, there wasn’t a hint of his money and power. So why was Phule out here working the slots, when he could undoubtedly sit in an easy chair sipping cold drinks and earn more money in half an hour from his businesses and investments than he was likely to win in the biggest payout these machines offered?
Wait a minute, Ernie thought, with the stunning awareness of someone who’s overlooked an iceberg in a swimming pool. Just how big was the payout on these machines? What if the casino was offering enough to give even Victor Phule a rush of adrenaline every time he yanked the handle?
Casinos always make it a point to list the payout on the front of the slot machines, to remind the customer just how much he stands to win in the unlikely event of the symbols actually lining up right. Trying to appear as casual as possible, Ernie strolled up to one of the machines at the other end of the bank that Phule was playing, reaching in his pocket as if he might be interested in trying his luck.
“Sorry, my friend, these machines are in use,” said a calm voice at his side. Ernie turned to see a compact, competent-looking man with eyes that looked as if they could’ve cut a clean hole straight through a planet. The bodyguard, he thought.
“Hey, no problem,” said Ernie, genially. “Just taking a look at the payout, to see if it’s worth my while to play. I can always come back after you’re done.”
“The payout’s fine,” said the bodyguard. “But the price is a bit steep. You might do better over at the roulette table—it’s only a hundred dollars a spin, there.” His manner was as casual as Ernie’s, although it was perfectly clear he was doing his best to discourage anyone else from playing this bank of machines. That was enough to eliminate any idea that Phule was shilling f
or the house. No shill would stand in the way of a customer anxious to drop a few tokens in the slot. Thousand-dollar tokens, Ernie realized, looking at the machine he was standing next to.
Then he saw what the payout was, and in spite of himself, he let out a low whistle. “Whoa, are these guys kidding?” he asked. “A partner’s share in the casino—that can’t be for real.”
“Oh, it’s completely legitimate,” said Victor Phule, stepping up to the machine next to Ernie. “I made certain of that, you can be sure. I’m not going to throw my money away for nothing.”
“I guess not,” said Ernie, stepping back to give Phule room to pull the lever. He was fully aware of the bodyguard’s steady glare as he said, suddenly putting on his best imitation of an educated accent, “Sorry, I don’t mean to cramp your style.”
“That’s all right,” said Phule. “I’ve about done my six-hour stint for today. If you’ve a mind to play these machines after I’m gone, feel free. I don’t think anyone besides me has been trying them, though. Shame. A few more players would shorten the odds against someone’s winning.”
“Well, I guess I got nothing against being part owner of the casino,” said Ernie, feigning an interest much milder than he really felt. “I’d have to turn it over to somebody else to run, though. I’ve got too many other balls in the air back home to stay around here to watch one more small business.”
“Here, then, have a pull on me,” said Victor Phule. “If you hit the jackpot and don’t want it, you can always sell it back to me.” He reached in his pocket and tossed Ernie a silver-colored metal token. Ernie stared at it in disbelief. It was heavier than it looked from a distance. In the center of each side was a hologram, showing a roulette wheel that spun as the token was tilted to different angles. Around the rim in raised letters it read: “Fat Chance Casino—$1000.” Smaller print added the phrase, “Redeemable in Alliance funds at any window.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 128