The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “If that’s the way you feel, you ought to be even more anxious to get the job done and head for home,” said Sushi. “Come on, there’s supposed to be a row of touristy shops in the center of town. Let’s take a stroll down there and see if we spot our guy—or our Nightingale.”

  “Aw right, aw right,” said Do-Wop. “I can’t feature Beeker doin’ touristy stuff, though. You think the dude even owns a T-shirt?”

  “For all I know, he’s got a hundred of ’em,” said Sushi as the two legionnaires started off toward town at a leisurely pace. “Who knows what he wears underneath that starched shirt of his?”

  Do-Wop frowned, then answered, “For all I know, it’s purple antirobot cammy.”

  Having exhausted the subject of Beeker’s wardrobe, Do-Wop and Sushi trudged along, staring at the pathway leading into town. Like most paths they’d seen on Hix’s World, it was paved with native flagstones, carefully chosen to harmonize with the scenery. It rarely held to an absolutely straight line, preferring gentle curves that followed the natural contours of the local terrain. A split-rail fence paralleled it on one side. It was thoroughly lovely, in a self-righteously rustic way.

  Around the curve just ahead of them, there came a woman riding a bicycle. She saw the two pedestrians and reached out to squeeze the bulb of an old-fashioned air horn mounted to the handlebars. Sushi and Do-Wop looked up and automatically moved to the side to let her by. It was only after she was past them and rolling around the next curve in the path that Sushi turned around and stared after her. “Hey, did you see that? That was Nightingale!”

  “No shit?” said Do-Wop, wheeling around. “Hey, let’s go get her!”

  But she had more than enough of a head start to outrun them both.

  Chapter Twelve

  Journal #829

  After the rust and incipient riot of Rot’n’art, Hix’s World came as a breath of fresh air quite literally: air quality standards were written directly into the Settlers’ Bill of Rights—in effect, the planetary constitution—by the members of the first colonization. Any device or organism known to emit any of 253 listed noxious gases or any of 728 listed noxious particles in atmospheric suspension was subject to confiscation without appeal. Noise regulations were equally stringent; certain musical instruments were officially contraband unless accompanied by a certificate of performance proficiency from a recognized institution of musical education. Any performer not so certified was subject to expulsion from the planet.

  What was remarkable about Hix’s World wasn’t the existence of the regulations—after all, any competent lawyer can probably think of dozens of equally stringent legal provisions around the Alliance. Nor was the total ruthlessness with which they were enforced especially odd; again, almost every society has at some time pursued a “zero tolerance” policy regarding some practice it frowns upon. No, what set Hix’s World apart was the lack of dissent from the standards its original settlers had imposed upon the populace. Some ten generations after the settlement, the only changes in the environmental standards of Hix’s World have been their extension to irritants unknown at the time of founding.

  Surprisingly, the result of all this thicket of regulation is one of the most tranquil worlds on which I have ever set foot.

  * * *

  “All right, we know she’s here,” said Sushi. “So Beeker has to be here too.” He and Do-Wop sat on the low stone wall to one side of the footpath on which they’d been going into town when Nightingale—or someone who looked a great deal like her—rode past them on a bicycle. They’d dashed off in pursuit of her, but she’d had far too long a head start for them to catch her—though they’d certainly tried. And, whether she simply didn’t hear them or deliberately ignored them, their attempts to get the cyclist to stop had failed.

  Do-Wop scowled. “Maybe you’re right, Soosh. But the way she was riding that thing, there’s no tellin’ where she’s going. Could be miles from here.”

  “Could be,” said Sushi. “But she was coming from Crumpton, which either means she’s staying there—and will be back, probably later today. Or it could be she’s staying someplace else close by and was headed there. In which case, we’ve got a larger area to search …”

  “I bet she’s still in town,” said Do-Wop, pointing in the direction in which Nightingale had gone. “Too early in the day for her to ride in, go shopping, and be done already.”

  Sushi shook his head. “It’s after ten o’clock, you know—you may like to sleep all morning, but not everybody else does. She could’ve gotten up early …”

  Do-Wop cut him short. “Ahhh, you think you know everything, but you don’t know how women shop,” he scoffed. “Woman goes shoppin’ for soap, she’s gotta look at every bar of soap in three different stores. Not just look at it—she’s gotta smell it, and heft it, and look at the color, and read the label, and compare the price, and talk to five, six other people about what kinda soap they like, and then go back to all the other stores again to look at their soap. Me, I’d grab the cheapest soap in the store and go home and wash my hands before she even figured out how much it cost.”

  “Hmmm, maybe you’re right,” said Sushi. “I didn’t see her carrying anything, so she probably hadn’t been shopping. Which means instead of following her, we should just wait for her to come back.”

  “Good thinkin’,” said Do-Wop, standing up. “I say we both go find a good spot and hang out there and see if she comes past.”

  “All right, that makes as much sense as anything,” said Sushi, rising to join his partner. “But we’d better keep our eyes and ears open while we’re walking, just in case she comes back this way.”

  “Nothin’ to worry about, Soosh,” said Do-Wop with a grin. “I’m all eyes.”

  “Yeah, well, keep ’em open—I’d hate to miss her,” said Sushi. After a moment, he said, “I wonder what she’s doing going out without Beeker. I hope they’re still together—if they’re not, we’re totally wasting our time.”

  “Aw, man, Beeker might be old, but he ain’t stupid.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” said Sushi. “Why isn’t he out riding with her? What if she had some kind of accident?”

  “Yeah, them two-wheel thingies look dangerous as hell to me,” said Do-Wop.

  “Bicycling’s supposed to be good exercise,” said Sushi with a shrug. “It’s fun, too—I used to ride one at summer camp, out on Earpsalot. But there could be other reasons Beeker’s not with her this morning. Maybe he had some shopping of his own to do …”

  “No way Beeker’s gonna spend all morning on that. I bet there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on …”

  “What is it with you, anyway?” said Sushi. He stopped walking and turned to point a finger at his partner. “Two minutes ago you were saying Beeker wasn’t out with Nightingale because he didn’t want to ride a bicycle; now you say there’s something fishy because he isn’t. Don’t you listen to yourself? Or do you just like to contradict people for the sake of argument?”

  “What the hell you talkin’ about? I never contradict nobody,” said Do-Wop, his hands on his hips.

  “You do it all the time,” said Sushi. “Especially me, and I’m getting tired of it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Do-Wop. “Listen up, wise guy …”

  They were still arguing hotly when Nightingale gently honked her horn and zipped past them on her bicycle, headed back to Crumpton.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Armstrong took a deep breath. Everything was going according to plan—so far, at least. Barring some disaster, General Blitzkrieg would be happily occupied during his stay, out of the company’s hair, and blissfully unaware that Captain Jester was off-planet. The essence of the plan was for Blitzkrieg to win—ideally, by a narrow enough margin to keep the general from walking off with a significant bundle of Omega Company’s cash. Just to be on the safe side, Armstrong had instructed the caddies to make certain the general always had a good lie, and that the florbigs left his ball alone, an
d that his drink was never empty.

  To Armstrong’s great relief, the general had taken to Omega Company’s new golf course like a Zenobian realtor to virgin swampland. And the Andromatic robot duplicate of Captain Jester—originally built to impersonate Phule in his capacity as owner of the Fat Chance Casino—evidently had the general completely fooled. The robot was custom-built to escort rich customers around a gambling resort. So the robot “Phule” came from the factory programmed to play a respectable golf game—automatically modulating its game to play just a couple of strokes worse than the opponent.

  Flight Leftenant Qual had been briefed on the plan, of course. Armstrong wasn’t entirely sure just how much Qual understood, or whether the Zenobian was sufficiently in command of his game to play his part without mishaps. The little Zenobian’s style was completely unorthodox, with both feet usually coming off the ground when he swung. Qual got excellent distance off the tee with his cut-down clubs, but his shots seemed to have a near-magnetic attraction to the deep rough and the bunkers. That should have resulted in a horrible score, but despite spending most of his time in the hazards, Qual had pulled off some near miracles with his short irons and putter, and shot a very respectable thirty-nine on the first nine. Armstrong had had to sink a couple of fifteen-foot putts to keep Qual and the robot from taking the lead. He did his best not to think of what the general’s mood might be if he’d missed them …

  But after nine holes, the score was just where it ought to be: the general and Armstrong were one up against Qual and the robot. General Blitzkrieg had hit something over a hundred balls, but by incredibly selective scorekeeping had managed to put only forty-two strokes down on his scorecard. It was his custom to hit as many as four drives—“Just getting a feel for the course,” he’d say—then play whichever ball happened to lie best. “This is the one I hit first, right?” If an approach shot went astray, he’d take another mulligan or two. What was most astonishing to Armstrong was that Blitzkrieg appeared to have no notion whatsoever that his score for the front nine was in any way questionable.

  In any case, General Blitzkrieg was in the lead, and in a good mood. The florbigs had left his ball entirely alone; he’d had a long, cool G&T after the front nine; and now he was gleefully rehashing every good shot he’d made—some of them completely imaginary, but not even Qual was clueless enough to challenge him on that point.

  Armstrong had won the last hole with a par four; the other three players had holed out in five, with Qual and the robot “Captain Jester” both missing tough six-footers. True to form, General Blitzkrieg had picked up his thirty-foot uphill putt once Armstrong’s ball was in the hole, saying, “that one’s a gimme now.” In any case, Armstrong had the honors, and responded by thumping a number two wood straight down the middle with a clean shot at the fat of the green. “Great golf shot,” said Captain Jester with a broad grin. It was uncanny how much the robot resembled its prototype, right down to the nuances of behavior; it was exactly the way the real captain would have responded.

  Qual and the general followed, and for once both somehow managed to keep the ball in the fairway, though short of Armstrong’s drive. Now the robot was up, waggling a driving iron at the teed ball. “Let’s see if I can put this one past you, Armstrong,” it said, shading its eyes to peer down the fairway.

  The general said, “Ten dollars says you can’t.” He’d made three or four similar side bets and lost all but one of them, but if he had any memory of his losses, it didn’t deter him. Maybe it was his way of putting pressure on an opponent.

  “Like taking candy from a baby,” said the robot. “You’re on, General—watch this!” It took a long backswing, then brought the club head down on the ball with frightening velocity. The ball streaked off down the center of the course, seemingly inches off the ground.

  Whether by sheer blind luck, or as a cleverly disguised way to let the general win another hole, the robot’s drive was aimed directly at a low, flat rock perhaps forty yards down the course. If it had hit at almost any random angle, it would have bounced off in some unpredictable direction—most likely, into the deep rough. But, as luck would have it, the ball hit square on almost the only face of the rock perpendicular to its line of flight, and before anyone could say a word, it had rebounded directly back to the tee and struck the robot square in the forehead with a sickening thunk. As three horrified golfers and four openmouthed caddies looked on, the robot crumpled to the ground—seemingly lifeless.

  * * *

  Phule had spent a good fraction of the morning learning that if Hix’s World had a private detective agency, it was extremely private. Secret might be a better description—at least, there were none listed on the Net, nor in the business directory, nor in the phone books. And Carlotta, the receptionist who’d greeted him upon arrival, showed no sign of comprehending what he was looking for when he asked her advice. He was beginning to wonder if anybody on Hix’s World did anything that required investigation, improbable as that seemed.

  In fact, it didn’t make sense at all. There was certainly a government here, and Phule had even seen evidence of a police force, although not one that would have impressed visitors from a built-up world like Rot’n’art or New Baltimore. And he had no doubt that people here were swindling their business partners and cheating on their spouses just as frequently as on any other world he’d been to. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how they found out what was going on—unless everybody did their own private investigations. Which is what it looked as if he was going to have to do if he was going to find Nightingale—and ultimately, Beeker.

  So: back to square one. He knew they were here, and in fact they couldn’t be far away. If he visited the nearby hotels and rooming houses, he had a good chance of either spotting them or getting a desk clerk or waiter to recognize them by description. It would be labor-intensive, but it was fairly straightforward.

  Alternately, he could start visiting places they were likely to go, hoping to intercept them there. That also required time, but a bit less legwork. He could pick a museum gallery or a park bench and wait—if he picked the right one. It’d be just his luck to spend hours inspecting the crowds someplace they’d already checked off their list. What kind of attraction would Beeker be drawn to? He realized he had no better idea than he’d had on Rot’n’art.

  Well, one thing they had to do was eat. And even if their hotel had a four-star restaurant, they’d likely want to sample the others in the neighborhood, if only for a change of scenery—or to avoid a special trip back in the midst of a day of sightseeing. That was the ticket! He’d pick a popular lunch spot near tourist spots and lie in wait for them there. The Directory of Local Attractions provided by the hotel gave him the names of several likely spots; he chose one, got directions there, and headed out.

  Encore Silver Plate was a little cafe and wine bar with outdoor tables half a block from the main shopping street in the largest nearby town, New Yarmouth. The walls were hung with works of local artists, all priced for sale, and none to Phule’s taste. But the place was obviously popular—nearly full, in fact—and the colorful sign in front was large enough to catch the eye of any jaded shopper looking for a place to take a lunch break. Best of all, the outside tables gave a clear view along the street in both directions, as well as of the foot traffic on High Street.

  Phule ordered a large coffee and settled himself at a table near the curb, with a local newsprint he’d picked up on the way into town. A look around at the clientele suggested that the place was frequented equally by locals and off-worlders here to see the Floribunda Fete.

  The tourists sat in small groups, ostentatiously dressed in expensive walking or cycling outfits, noisily comparing notes on maps and guidebooks or off-world newsprints. The locals—most of them wearing casual outfits that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow on any of the settled worlds of the Alliance—also kept to themselves, swapping hilarious gossip about their neighbors or playing some local card game, which looked
to be an improbable cross between cribbage and tonk. They paid no attention to the tourists, who returned the favor.

  Phule wasn’t especially interested in either group, except for a particular pair of tourists. He’d already determined that neither Beeker nor Nightingale were in the cafe or on the nearby streets. He took a sip of his coffee, opened the newsprint, and sat back in a position where he could see along the street in both directions without lowering the paper or otherwise making it obvious he was looking for someone. He figured that even if someone noticed him scanning the crowd, they were most likely to assume he was—like at least two other men in the cafe—a bored tourist awaiting his wife’s return from a shopping expedition.

  An hour passed; Phule bought a second coffee and some kind of sweet pastry, overtipping the girl behind the counter—if he had to sit at his table a long time, he didn’t want her to get too annoyed at him, maybe even decide he looked suspicious and call the authorities on him. He’d already lost interest in the newsprint. But he’d made up his mind to stay here till after lunchtime, then move on to someplace else and take up the vigil there—unless he got a break first.

  After another hour, he was beginning to regret the two coffees, good as they were. There was a restroom inside the cafe, of course. But to use it was to risk missing Beeker or Nightingale, should they by chance pick that very moment to pass by. He sat there a while longer, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he wondered what professional detectives did in this situation. Finally, after convincing himself that the odds of missing his quarry were so slim as to be negligible, he gave in to the inevitable and went inside.

  Naturally, he’d been gone mere seconds before Beeker and Nightingale strolled slowly past the cafe, stopping to read the menu and peer inside before moving on down the street. But by the time Phule was back outside, they’d turned the corner. He never knew how close he’d come to finding them.