Eventually, having decided that the crowd wasn’t likely to turn violent, and that there were enough police and robots on hand to handle it if it did, he turned from the window and booted up his Port-a-Brain laptop. The overriding question was how he was going to locate Beeker. He knew the butler was on this planet; the Port-a-Brain had told him that. But where would Beeker have gone, here on this rusty former capital of the Human Alliance? And why hadn’t he answered Phule’s email?
He called up a guide to local tourist services, trying to guess which attractions would appeal to Beeker (or to Nightingale, although he had much less sense of her taste and interests than of his butler’s). There were a few historic buildings that one could tour, none of which struck him as likely to command anyone’s interest much beyond half an hour. Slightly more promising were a couple of art museums, although reading between the lines of the guide made it clear that, in an attempt to make up for budget shortfalls, the most interesting artworks had been deacquisitioned—many to off-planet collectors.
From there it went steadily downhill. With most of the planet having been roofed over in its boom days, there was almost nothing in the way of natural scenery or outdoor activities—at least, from the point of view of anyone who’d been to a real planet recently. And Phule couldn’t imagine anyone—certainly not Beeker—wanting to spend his vacation time viewing industrial museums or public works.
So what did that leave? The guide said that the locals were fanatical in their devotion to professional team sports. Something called haki was apparently in season right now, and from the publicity holos it looked like a fast-moving, physically demanding game. But if Beeker had any interest in sports, he’d managed to conceal it entirely from his employer.
The performing arts section offered no better clues. There was a large concert hall in town, and tickets for the current attraction—Ruy Lopez and the Bad Bishops—were in heavy demand. Searching further, Phule found a sample of Lopez’s music, and endured about seven seconds of it before deciding that Beeker probably wasn’t interested in that, either. As for the theater, the stars were complete unknowns (at least to Phule), and the plot summaries of the current offerings ran the gamut from boring to bizarre without ever managing to pique his interest. Granted, his taste differed from the butler’s, but as far as Phule could see, the local theater was between golden eras.
For a planet that touted itself as the “Galactic Center of Everything,” Rot’n’art was revealing itself to be a surprisingly dull place. Could he be completely mistaken in thinking he knew Beeker’s tastes and interests?
Another idea occurred to him. Nightingale might have been the one who’d suggested coming to Rot’n’art, for reasons of her own. Could she have grown up on Rot’n’art and still have family here? Legion privacy policy meant that there’d be no official record of that, but Phule suspected that Perry Sodden, the investigator he’d hired, could find out easily enough. If she’d grown up locally, or if she had family here, that would give Phule his first useful clue as to why she and Beeker had come here—and maybe tell him where he could catch up to them.
Phule added the note to a list of questions for Sodden. He’d scheduled a meeting with the investigator for the next day. The list was already on its second page. Maybe all these questions would turn out to be superfluous. Maybe Beeker would answer his email. Or maybe Sodden would appear for the meeting with exactly the answers Phule was looking for, and then he could go meet Beeker and convince him to end this silly escapade and return to Zenobia and start doing his job again.
But it didn’t hurt to prepare for the possibility that Sodden had had no more luck than Phule. Phule took a sip of his drink, rolled his shoulders to fight the tension in his muscles, and stared at the Port-a-Brain’s screen once more.
It was late by the time he turned out the lights.
Chapter Ten
Journal #813
My employer, for all his dedication to the military life, was at bottom a businessman. In that, he resembled his father. He also resembled that gentleman in a firm conviction that his own view of the world was fundamentally accurate, and that others who did not share it were in need of correction. Unlike his father, he was at least willing to let those others find their own way to correction …
* * *
“That was awesome,” said Do-Wop, shaking his head. “I knew you was a con artist, but I never seen you fool that many people at once.” The two of them were ensconced in the guest room of a suburban home belonging to one of the ringleaders of the demonstration Sushi had inserted himself into as head agitator. It was early morning planetary time, and outside the blinds, the artificial lights of Rot’n’art were slowly working up to their daytime peak intensity.
Sushi was still exhausted despite a sound night’s sleep. Taking over the demonstration had required all his energy, physical and mental, before the crowd had lifted him to its shoulders and carried him away in triumph. “If you ever see me about to try that again, remind me not to,” he said. “I kept worrying that the cops would decide to make a charge. I think it was pure luck that they backed down …”
“Nah, you had ’em fluffled,” said Do-Wop admiringly. “If I had me some money to invest, I’d have put it in that greebfap you was sellin’ the crowd. What is that stuff, anyway?”
“You tell me, and we’ll both know,” said Sushi. “All I knew is, our best chance to get out of the place without major damage was to throw in with the biggest gang we could find. Thank Ghu it worked.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when they all carried you off like some kind of hero,” said Do-Wop. “You’re a genius, Soosh.”
“Thanks, I guess,” said Sushi. “Only problem is that my face is going to be all over tri-vee. If Beeker or the captain sees the local news, they’re likely to figure out what we’re doing here. And if the wrong cop happens to spot me, I could end up in some back room figuring out how to answer hostile questions about greebfap.”
Do-Wop scoffed. “No problem, we disguise you, is all. A fake beard and some dark shades oughta do the job … or maybe some kinda big hat …”
“Yeah, right, I carry that stuff with me all the time. What are you going to do, go out to the local disguise store? I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops have your face in their files too. They had robots taking pictures all during that riot. And unless they’re really stupid, they’ll be running comparisons with the passport pictures from spaceport arrivals. They probably already know exactly who we are.”
“No freakin’ way,” said Do-Wop. “My passport pic don’t look anything like me, and I bet yours don’t, either.”
“Mine’s a lot uglier than I am,” agreed Sushi. A tired grin came onto his face. “But yours couldn’t possibly be …” Sushi ducked as Do-Wop took a swing at him. “OK, sorry,” he said. “Still, we’ve got this problem of suddenly being way too visible. And we still need to figure out where the captain is, so we can keep him out of trouble—and help him find Beeker, so we can go back to Zenobia.”
“Well, one thing we know about the captain—he ain’t cheap. Just find out what the best hotel on the planet is—I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that’s where the captain’s staying.”
Sushi’s mouth fell open. “Partner, you just earned yourself a whole basket of donuts. That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. And it wasn’t even mine.”
Do-Wop grinned evilly. “Yeah, well, I’ll pass on the donuts. Just remember this the next time you think you can diss your buddy. When they handed out the street smarts, us Italians was standing right by the flagpole. And you can tell that to the Marines.”
“Uh, yeah,” said Sushi. “So why don’t we go downstairs and see if our host will feed us breakfast—and maybe tell us about the local hotels?”
“Now you’re comin’ up with the good ideas,” said Do-Wop. “Lead the way, Soosh.” Together they headed out the door; somewhere downstairs they could already hear a coffeemaker bubbling away. It was shaping up as a good morning afte
r all.
* * *
Just before noon, Phule took the dropshaft down to the lobby and entered the hotel bar, where he had agreed to meet Perry Sodden, tracer of missing persons, for business—and lunch. He took a corner booth away from other customers and ordered a pint of Old Rot’n’art IPA, which the locals firmly believed to be the finest beer in the galaxy. Phule knew better, but ordering anything else was practically guaranteed to start an argument with the robot waitress. He didn’t need the attention, so he took a sip of the thin, sour-tasting brew and suppressed a shudder. If anything, the home brewery’s product was worse than the export version. Just as well; he needed to keep a clear head anyway, and the taste would discourage him from drinking much of it.
After a few minutes, Sodden slid onto the opposite bench of the booth. “You’re in luck,” he said, out of one side of his mouth. “I’ve already got a solid lead on the rascal you’re after.”
“That’s great news, but don’t think I’d call old Beeker a rascal,” said Phule. “He’s just taking a sort of unofficial vacation—with a lady friend.”
“Know just what you mean, Captain,” said Sodden with a wink. “Say, how about buying a fellow a drink? Talking’s thirsty work, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Phule, signaling for the waitress. Sodden ordered an Old Rot’n’art, and when the waitbot went to fetch it, Phule said, “Now, what are the chances of catching my man before he takes ship to the next planet? This is the third place I’ve followed him to, and I’d really like to get him back on the job.”
“If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times,” said Sodden. “Midlife crisis kind of thing. One minute, your fellow’s a sober citizen, and the next he decides it’s time to stop and smell the roses, and the next thing you know he’s halfway across the galaxy, driving a little red hovertible. Funny how the best roses are always on some other planet. But not to worry, Captain. Soon enough he’ll run out of spending cash, and then you’re like enough to see him back at your door, his hat in his hand.” The beer came, and Sodden paused to take a deep sip.
“I can’t imagine Beeks in a hovertible, red or any other color,” said Phule, toying with his glass. “And I sure hope I don’t have to wait for him to run out of money—the old fellow’s as frugal as they come. I think it’d take him quite a while to spend all his savings, even with the lady friend helping him out.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Sodden. “I used to go with this girl from Varleigh …” He shuddered, then knocked back his drink and signaled for another before turning back to Phule. “Anyhow, he’s bound to leave a trail an experienced investigator like me can follow. And like I told you, I’ve got a solid lead. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days before I’ve got him.”
“He could be off-planet and on a ship to who knows where by then,” said Phule. “I hope you aren’t taking things for granted.”
“Not a chance,” Sodden said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, I’ll need a bit more of an advance to check out all the angles—I might have to put on a couple of extra people to run everything down. But you can be sure we’ll get …” The ring of his pocket phone interrupted him. “One moment, Captain. Sorry …” He put the earpiece to his ear, listening. “Uh-huh. Really. Really? Oh, shit. Hang on; I’ll be there.” He thumbed the off button and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“What is it?” said Phule, worried.
“Minor problem in the office,” said Sodden, getting to his feet. “Now, a couple hundred more for expenses would be a good idea just about now, right?”
“Some straight talk about what’s going on with my case would be an even better idea,” said Phule, getting to his feet and putting a hand on Sodden’s shoulder.
“Uh, well …” Sodden rolled his eyes from side to side, like a drowning man searching for help. Suddenly he pointed to something behind Phule, and shouted, “Look! There she goes!”
Phule turned quickly to see a tall Black woman—Nightingale? or someone else?—vanish through a doorway leading out of the hotel. He turned back to Sodden—who said, “Hurry! Maybe we can catch her.”
They ran quickly to the door where they’d seen the woman, but she had already vanished into the crowd on the sidewalk.
* * *
The sign inside Chocolate Harry’s Supply depot read, GOLF POOL—BEST ODDS ON THE PLANET. A smart legionnaire might have pointed out that, since nobody else on the planet was giving odds on General Blitzkrieg’s golf games, Harry wasn’t promising all that much. But since the legionnaire who pointed that out was likely to have it pointed out that Harry was under no obligation to take bets from anyone, the claim went unchallenged. In fact, Harry had plenty of takers for his odds—a predictable benefit of running the only game in town.
Harry wasn’t picky; he’d give odds on almost anything you could find somebody willing to bet on. He was running a pool on the Zenobians’ team sports, which almost none of the Legionnaires understood (though there were plenty who claimed to). Bets on the arrival time of the next Supply shuttle were one of his most popular offerings. And if things were really slow, he could always fall back on organizing competitions among members of Omega Company, on which other members were then encouraged to bet.
“Who d’ya want, Roadkill?” said Harry as one of Brandy’s recruits studied the odds board. “If you’re a bettin’ man, there’s some pretty juicy situations there.”
The board currently had the general the favorite at two to one; Lieutenant Armstrong was at five to two; Captain Jester was at four to one; and Flight Leftenant Qual was a rank outsider at ten to one. There were also plenty of side bets, such as odds on one or more of the players scoring a hole in one, longest drive of the day on the par-five second, over/under for total putts on the afternoon, number of balls snatched by florbigs, and so forth. The variety of options was a tribute to Harry’s hard work; he’d spent the better part of a weekend researching golf before he had the faintest clue how the game was played, let alone what somebody might want to bet on.
“Why’s the general such a big favorite?” said Roadkill, squinting at the odds board. “He don’t look like much of a player to me. Way out of shape …”
“Ah, but he’s got the edge in experience,” said Harry knowingly. “Condition don’t mean that much in this game, and there’s no defensemen goin’ upside your head if you take your eye off ’em. All a dude has to do is hit his best shot and watch it go. How you bettin’?”
Roadkill rubbed his chin. “Twenty gradoojies on the captain,” he said decisively. “And another five on Lieutenant Armstrong for a hole in one.”
“OK, got you covered,” said Chocolate Harry, smiling. “Who else wants some action?”
“I would like to bet, but first I have a question,” said a familiar voice. Harry turned to see Mahatma standing there, an enigmatic smile on his face.
Harry groaned. “Oh, man, I’m not gonna have to explain the whole history of golf to you, am I?” he asked—only half-joking. Every officer and noncom in the company had learned to tread very carefully when Mahatma approached them with one of his questions.
“Not today, Sergeant Harry,” said Mahatma. “I found a good history on the Net, although I may have other questions on it later. Today I want to know why the general is permitted to hit several drives for every one his opponents hit, then to choose the best to play.”
“Uh, I think that’s what they call a handiclap,” said Harry with utter confidence. “That’s like a courtesy they extend to the visiting player, so’s the local guys don’t have an unfair advantage.”
“That makes some sense,” said Mahatma. Harry breathed a deep sigh—prematurely, as he soon learned. “But tell me, Sergeant Harry—this is a new course, so our local players have not played it any more than the general has, have they?”
“I guess that’s right, Mahatma,” said Chocolate Harry, doing his best to appear unruffled. “But of course, Qual’s a native, and the captain and lieutenant hav
e both had a good, long while to get acclimated to these here desert conditions, which the general, being from off-world, hasn’t done. So they’d still have that local edge. Can’t beat that local edge.”
“The general seems to be beating it very consistently,” said Mahatma brightly.
“So bet on his ass,” grumbled Harry, finally losing his patience. “I ain’t got all day to talk, y’know. And if you ain’t bettin’, go mess wit’ somebody else’s head.”
“Why, that is a wonderful suggestion, Sergeant Chocolate Harry,” said Mahatma. “I believe I will do just that.” And he turned on his heel, leaving C. H. to wonder just which of his two suggestions Mahatma was going to follow.
* * *
“Look here,” said Phule. He was in the spaceport departure lounge, his luggage already checked, and a first-class, one-way ticket to Hix’s World in his hand. “I’ve been on Rot’n’art for nearly a week. I came here to find my butler and his girlfriend, and that was all I really cared about. And now I found out they’re gone to Hix’s World …”
“Bad luck,” said Sodden firmly. “If we’d just been a little bit quicker following up that one lead—you’ll remember I was urging you to do just that …” He slapped his hand against the molded symwood arm of the waiting-room bench in evident frustration.
“No point in might-have-beens now,” said Phule with a shrug. “You’ve done the best you could for me, and I don’t hold it against you that my butler moved too fast for us to catch him. I’ve just got to go to the next place and try to catch him there.”
“Well, that’s mighty big of you, Captain,” said Sodden. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Phule shook it. “If you ever come back this way and need somebody in my line of work, just give a yell and I’m your man,” said the detective.
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 155