Ernie, whose business experience consisted almost entirely of scams and petty theft, nodded sagely. “No substitute for knuckling down and getting your hands dirty,” he said. “Not a job for weak sisters.”
“Just so,” said Victor Phule. “Say, how’d you like to take another crack at the slots? If you’re on a lucky streak, you’re just the man I need. If you win a big jackpot, it’ll show the boy the consequences of setting the odds too much in favor of the customers.”
“Sure, why not?” said Ernie. He was enough ahead of the game that he could afford to throw a few tokens into the slots and still have a little nest egg so that he (and Lola) could afford another couple of weeks on Lorelei. By then, he hoped, they’d have made some kind of breakthrough. If not … well, as usual, he’d deal with the problem when his other choices ran out.
He followed Phule into the elephants’ lounge. As usual, nobody was playing the thousand-dollar slots. Even the most well-heeled bettors generally considered it foolish to drop that much on such a low-return bet. Other than Phule and Ernie, there hadn’t been more than the occasional dabbler, who typically put in one or two tokens, then went on to play something that delivered better odds. Which was almost everything else in the Fat Chance Casino.
“All right,” said Ernie, fishing in his pocket for the thousand-dollar chips. He had ten of them, now. He picked a likely-looking machine—not that there was any noticeable difference among them—and put a chip into the slot. He grabbed the handle, then turned to Phule. “Say, by the way—what’s a partner’s share of the casino stock actually worth? Must be pretty valuable, considering they’re charging a thousand bucks for a chance to win it.”
“I guess it’s valuable enough, if you want that kind of property,” said Victor Phule. “Probably fifty or sixty million, if I were going to guesstimate.”
“I see,” said Ernie. All of a sudden his palms began to sweat. He looked at the machine he’d just pumped a thousand dollars into. Fifty or sixty million, Victor Phule had said. Of course he’d dreamed of having that kind of money, but actually having it had never been remotely probable. Fifty or sixty million … He pulled the handle and the machine display became a whirl of rapidly changing symbols.
He eased up on the handle, and one of the electronic “wheels” stopped on a golden bar that framed the words “FAT CHANCE” in bright blue letters. The other symbols continued to change rapidly. He waited, trying to feel the right moment, then gave the handle a little jiggle and watched a second “FAT CHANCE” golden bar appear. All right! he thought. Now, any symbol but a lemon would give him a decent return for his play. The machine was of course carefully calibrated not to turn up another gold bar. The first two were supposed to make him think he’d just missed, and pump another token—or a dozen or more—into the machine. But a bell or a cherry or a rocket ship were always possible … He gave the handle a little pull toward him, then released it. The final wheel came to a stop.
It was a third golden bar, with the words “FAT CHANCE” in bright blue letters. A bell started ringing somewhere very close, and, after a pause, tokens began pouring out of the machine.
Victor Phule stood openmouthed, speechless. But he was nowhere near as surprised as Ernie, as a loud siren added its noise to the bell, and happy music began playing. In front of his face, a sign was flashing off and on: “SUPER JACKPOT!!!”
That was echoed in the back of his mind by a little voice saying, Fifty or sixty million, over and over and over …
Chapter Thirteen
Journal #723
The fascination of some men—it is invariably men—with implements of destruction never ceases to amaze me. While all collectors are by definition fanatics, the connoisseur of weapons takes this quality to an extreme. Even if one grants in principle the historical, and (I will even grant) the artistic appeal of certain weapons, surely no civilized person can entirely forget their gruesome purpose.
I find it particularly paradoxical that these aesthetes of destruction insist on having the finest weapons possible at their command. As if the victims would somehow be insulted to learn that their demise had been brought about by bargain-basement artillery, with secondhand ammunition!
* * *
Phule and Armstrong came in sight of the hunters’ camp just as another loud explosion shook the air. Armstrong involuntarily ducked. “Great Ghu, I hope they’re paying attention where they point that thing,” he said. “It sounds like a cannon.”
“For all we know, it is,” said Phule. “According to Ambassador Gottesman, they’ve come to Zenobia planning to shoot some dinosaurs. I don’t even want to speculate on what kind of weapons they thought they’d need for that.”
“Civilians,” grumbled Armstrong—just before another, even louder explosion caused him to duck again. “What the hell?”
“It came from over there,” said Phule, pointing to the left of the row of three luxury-grade Ultra-tents facing them. “Let’s find out what’s going on.”
They found the hunters in a group, huddled around a selection of weapons ranging from antique firearms to what looked alarmingly like a milspec rocket launcher, supposedly unavailable to the civilian trade. “Let’s try this one,” said one of the group. “The salesman told me it’d knock anything up to five thousand kilos right off its feet.”
“Five thou?” said another. “Hell, if they got real dinos on this planet, not that I’ve seen hide nor hair of one …”
“You won’t, either,” said Phule, stepping forward. “The local fauna are pretty diverse, but I’ve yet to see anything with hair—at least nothing indigenous.”
Startled, the hunters whirled around to face them. “Captain Jester!” said the man who’d spoken first. “We didn’t hear you coming.”
“I’m not surprised, with all the noise you’ve been making,” said Phule, with a smile. “You really ought to wear ear protection if you’re going to be using those big cannons. By the way, would you mind pointing that one the other way?” He gestured toward the large-bore double-barreled rifle the hunter was cradling under one arm.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” said the hunter—Euston O’Better, Armstrong recalled. He shifted the weapon to one side, and said, “It ain’t loaded, anyways.” To prove his point he pulled the trigger. The weapon roared, and O’Better nearly fell backwards from the recoil. At the same time, a gaping hole appeared in one of the Ultra-tents.
“Hey, why don’t you watch where you’re shooting?” came a woman’s voice from inside the tent, shortly followed by the emergence of a compactly built brunette in shorts. Her hair was up in curlers, and her expression could have curdled milk at a hundred yards. “Oh, hello,” she said, “I didn’t know we had company.”
“Captain, this is my wife Dallas,” said one of the other hunters, Austen Tay-Shun. “And don’t you worry, honey—we’ll make sure Euston doesn’t shoot you again.”
“With that thing, once would be enough,” said the woman. Then she turned to Phule, and a pleasant smile replaced her frown. “Hello, you must be Captain Jester. I’m Dallas Treat. And who’s this handsome young man with you?”
Phule introduced the blushing Lieutenant Armstrong, then turned back to the hunters. “Gentlemen, what just happened is a good example of why I came out here. It looks to me as if you need to pay a lot more attention to weapons safety generally. For example, not knowing whether a weapon is loaded before you pull the trigger …”
“Ahh, it’s not such a big deal,” said the third hunter, L.P. Asho. “It could’ve happened to anybody.”
“It darn near happened to me,” said Dallas Treat. “What do you need all those big guns for, anyway?”
“I tol’ you, honey, we came to this planet to hunt the biggest game in the whole galaxy,” said Tay-Shun. “If you’re fixin’ to go toe to toe with the big ’uns, you better have your boots on.”
“What’s that have to do with guns?” said Dallas, pouting. “Sometimes I think you say things that don’t make any sense just to ma
ke me feel stupid.”
“Honey, you don’t hardly need help with that,” said Tay-Shun. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to talk with these here Legion officers that come to visit …”
“We’re not really here for a social visit,” said Phule, cutting him off. “I just have one point to make. You are not allowed to fire weapons indiscriminately as long as you’re this close to our base. I’m going to insist that you stop shooting until you’re someplace where you can’t hurt one of my people by accident.”
“I see,” said L.P. Asho. “Tryin’ to get rid of us, are you?”
“Mr. Asho, I want to get rid of anything that puts my people in danger,” said Phule. “If you won’t use weapons responsibly, that definitely includes you. I can’t make you go home, but I can take your weapons away as long as you’re in territory under my command. Or I can be a good deal of help.”
“How’s that?” asked O’Better.
Phule waved in the general direction of the Legion camp. “If you think you need weapons practice before you start hunting, I can give you guest privileges at our base firing range, with Legion instructors. Or if you’d prefer, I can help you move your camp out to a remote area with plenty of game, where you can fire away as you please. Your choice. But you just can’t go popping off this close to my base; you don’t even know where my people are, at any given time.”
“All right, I take your point,” said Tay-Shun, quieting Asho, who seemed ready to protest again. “I reckon we aren’t quite ready to move out into the country just yet; we’d like to hire a native guide or two for when we do move. You think you can help us with that?”
“Our Zenobian liaison officer could probably help,” said Phule. “But will you promise to put the guns away, or at least not to use them except at our range, until you’re away from our base?”
“Fair enough, Captain,” said Tay-Shun, and turned to look at the others. After a moment, they nodded reluctantly.
“Good, then,” said Phule. “I’ll talk to my local contact and see if he can connect you up with a guide or two. And if you want to practice, just let me know, and I’ll arrange for you to use our facilities. Thank you for your understanding, gentlemen. And now, I’m afraid Lieutenant Armstrong and I need to get back to base.”
“All right, then,” said Tay-Shun. “Just get us that native guide, and we’ll be out of your hair right quick.”
“Can’t be any too soon for me,” muttered Armstrong, as the two officers turned. Phule shot him a warning glance, but he’d spoken too quietly for the hunters to hear. Together, they began jogging back to camp.
* * *
Willard Phule was back at his desk, eating a late breakfast and reading the daily performance summary of his investment portfolio, when his wrist communicator buzzed. That in itself was enough to alert him that something unusual was going on. The routine at Zenobia Base was sufficiently settled, by now, that Mother was unlikely to put a call through to him at mealtime for anything short of a genuine crisis.
On the other hand, the last few days had been characterized by a series of minicrises, involving Barky, the AEIOU team, the training exercise that had gone haywire, the “guests” that State had sent for him to entertain … Warily, Phule lifted his wrist close to his mouth, and said, “What is it, Mother?”
“I’ve got Tullie Bascomb on the line, sweetie,” came the saucy voice. “I told the old goniff to call back when you’re awake, but he just says it can’t wait. Shall I tell him to go away?”
“Oh, Tullie’s all right,” said Phule, idly wondering where Mother had picked up Yiddish insults. “If he says it’s important, I’m not going to make him wait.”
“All right, but if he spoils your digestion, you know who to blame,” said Mother. Phule nodded, silently, waiting. Something told him that Tullie’s call arose from the fact that his father was on Lorelei Station, sticking his nose into the casino business. He hoped Victor Phule wasn’t being too tough on the staff …
Abruptly, Bascomb’s voice came through the speaker of the wrist communicator. “Captain, everything’s hit the fan,” he growled.
“Hit the fan?” Phule was nonplussed. “What’s going on there, Tullie?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Bascomb. “Between your know-it-all father and some third-rate con artist we never should have let into the joint …”
Phule could hear shouting in the background, and Bascomb said, “Excuse me a second, Captain,” and the line went quiet; evidently Tullie had pressed the mute button. Then, after a pause, Bascomb returned and began speaking again. “All right, Captain, this whole screwup was my idea, and I’ve got to take the heat for it. You’ve got my resignation as of right now, if you want it …”
“Wait a minute,” said Phule. “Con artist? Screwup? Resignation? Tullie, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Will you go back to the start and tell me the whole story?”
“All right,” said Bascomb. “It all started with your father …”
“I’m not surprised,” said Phule. “Go ahead, Tullie.”
“You remember we set up the thousand-dollar slots to get him to play, and you authorized a really big prize to lead him on? We all figured the odds were so long there wouldn’t be a bug’s chance on a hot griddle of our actually having to give the prize …”
“Yes, I remember,” said Phule. He suddenly sat bolt upright. “Don’t tell me …”
“I am telling you, Captain,” said Bascomb. “But that’s not the worst of it. Your damn-fool father wasn’t satisfied with playing the slots himself, he had to go and give his chips to other people to play for him. Now I’ve got some smirking greaseball sitting in my office …”
“Hey, buddy, show a li’l respect,” Phule could hear a muffled voice say in the background.
“All right, all right,” said Bascomb, resignedly. “Captain, the long and short of it is this: this guy sitting in my office is named Ernie Erkeep, and I’m sorry to tell you that, thanks to your old man, the bum now owns a controlling share—what used to be your share, in fact—in the Fat Chance Casino. Here, I’m tired of looking at the sleazy bastard. Why don’t you talk to him while I go get myself a couple of stiff drinks?”
And the speaker again went silent while Phule sat looking stupidly at his wrist, waiting for someone on the other end to say something.
* * *
Thumper and the group of legionnaires he’d eaten breakfast with arrived in the center of the parade ground just before Sergeant Brandy emerged from the modular structure that was the main building on Zenobia Base. The Top Sergeant of Omega Company was one of the largest humans Thumper had ever seen, although she was a good bit shorter than the Volton legionnaire named Tusk-anini.
“All right, people, this is the Legion. Let’s see something I could mistake for a formation,” said Brandy, resignedly. She flipped through papers on a clipboard as the squad lined up, with only a minimum of grumbling. Thumper took a place in the middle of three rows, toward one end, waiting to see what would happen. He’d been in formations before, and had learned not to be either too eager to catch the leader’s attention or too obviously trying to escape it.
When everyone was more or less in place, Brandy looked up, and said, “We don’t usually do roll call—I know all of you by now. But we’ve got a new guy today, and I think it’d be a good idea to call roll until he gets an idea who everybody else is, and you get to know who he is. So sound off when I call your names—you’ve all done this before, so don’t make things any harder than they’ve gotta be.”
“Sergeant, I have a question,” said Mahatma, raising his hand in the front row.
Brandy rolled her eyes. “Gimme a break, Mahatma! Can’t it wait until after roll call? I’d like to get through at least that much before the philosophical seminar for the day.”
“But I just want to know how hard things have got to be,” said Mahatma. “Do Legion regulations specify the degree of difficulty of roll call?”
>
“As a matter of fact, they do,” growled Brandy. “They say you’re supposed to answer when I call your name, unless you aren’t here, in which case I mark you absent. Is that hard enough for you?”
“Maybe not for him, but it’s a real challenge for some of these grunts,” came a voice from the back of the formation.
Brandy glared. “Shut up, Roadkill,” she barked. Then, after a pause, she added, “Haven’t you feebs figured out I know your voices by now? OK, come on, let’s hear a nice clear answer when I call your names. Brick?”
“Here, Sergeant,” said a thin human female just in front of Thumper.
Brandy put a mark on her pad and continued. “Cheapshot?”
“Yo!” said another voice from the ranks.
Brandy dropped the hand with the clipboard to her side and glowered. “Look here, Cheapshot, we’re trying to show Thumper how we do things in Omega Company. How many times have I told you not to answer ‘Yo’ when I call the roll?”
“Bunch of times, Sarge,” said Cheapshot. “Never convinced me, though. You wanna show the new guy how we do things in Omega, you gotta include the bad with the good, right?”
“Cheapshot makin’ sense,” said another voice, and Thumper could hear still others murmuring their agreement.
Then Brandy said, “Shut up!” and the murmurs stopped. “OK,” she said, “maybe you’ve got a point, Cheapshot. I’ll agree that there’s a lot of good things about the Omega way, but this is one of those times when I just want the good old Legion way. Believe me, there’ll come a time when you’ll thank me for this.”
“If we thank you now, will you stop?” said another voice from the ranks.
“SHUT UP!” said Brandy, before the murmurs could get started. “If you just want to screw things up, I can make you stand here all day and never get to the fun stuff. I was gonna take you out to the obstacle course today, so Thumper can get a look at how Omega runs it.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 132