Sushi and Do-Wop followed Maxine down a hallway and through a door marked DANGER—UNPREDICTABLE QUANTUM FLUX. As they entered, a light came on, and the two legionnaires could see a stack of packing crates. Sushi’s first thought was that he’d walked into a warehouse full of ultracomputers—but that made no sense. The amount of processing and storage capacity even one of these crates might hold would satisfy the needs of most planetary governments. So it must be something else.
Maxine interrupted his train of speculation. “You boys are gonna restack everything in this room so these crates are at the back, where nobody can see ’em without moving a bunch of other stuff. And you’re gonna do it without taking anything out of the room and without making enough noise to attract attention. You got it?”
“Man, that’s gonna take all day,” said Do-Wop.
“So? You’re gettin’ paid for all day,” said Maxine, frowning. “Or would you rather punch out and go find jobs that don’t hurt your pretty little hands?”
“We’ve got it covered, boss,” said Sushi before Do-Wop could say anything else. “Shall we report to you when we’re finished?”
“No, just tell Robert you’re done, and then go finish your regular jobs. Oh, one more thing—you don’t talk about what you’ve done here. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sushi, and Do-Wop joined in a half beat behind him. Maxine nodded, then turned and left them to their devices.
“Man, this rots,” said Do-Wop. “By the time we’re finished with this, it’ll be way too late to get our message to the captain.”
“Never mind that,” said Sushi. “Did you see who that was? That’s Maxine Pruett, the mob boss from Lorelei. What’s she doing here?”
“Makin’ us hump boxes, it looks like to me.” Do-Wop scowled at the pile of crates. He looked up and said, “It is pretty weird to find her here, though. What d’ya think we oughta do about it?”
“Fear not, I have a brilliant plan,” said Sushi, grinning. “Help me with this crate.”
“Some plan,” said Do-Wop. “I throw my back out, it’s your fault, y’know.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said Sushi. “You ought to know me better than to think any plan of mine involves real work. What we’re going to do is open this crate up and see what’s in it. Then we’re going to sneak out, put our message under the captain’s door, and get out of this dump before the boss lady or anybody else figures out what’s happened. You with me?”
“All except the part about opening the crate,” said Do-Wop. “Why we gonna waste time with that?”
Sushi grinned. “Because anything Maxine Pruett wants to hide, I figure it’s to our advantage to know about. Come on, it can’t take more than a couple of minutes. You see anything we could use to pry one of these boards off?”
Do-Wop dug into his pockets and produced a laser cutter, and in a few more moments they had the crate open and the packing strewn around the floor. There in front of them sat a familiar item: a quantum slot machine, just like the ones they’d guarded in the Fat Chance Casino back on Lorelei. Do-Wop whistled. “I’m feeling lucky,” he said. “Got a quarter?”
“Never mind that,” said Sushi. “It doesn’t have a power module, for starters. But I just thought of something else—gambling is seriously illegal on this planet. This is some deep trouble. Let’s get out of here before the boss lady sends somebody to check up on whether we’re goofing off. Knowing Maxine, she’s got some muscle boys around to keep people like us from screwing up her operation.”
“Ahh, I ain’t afraid of no farkin’ muscle boys,” said Do-Wop, brandishing the laser cutter.
Sushi rolled his eyes. “Come on, we’re out of here—or would you rather hump some more boxes for free?”
“You got a point there, Soosh,” said Do-Wop, pocketing the laser. “Let’s blow this joint!”
Sushi cracked the door and peered out; the coast seemed to be clear. The two legionnaires crept into the hallway. “Don’t forget, we’ve got to leave the note for the captain,” whispered Sushi.
“Right,” said Do-Wop. “Remind me—which way’s his room?”
“Down one flight and to the left,” said Sushi, starting off in the direction of the stairway.
The two legionnaires had just started down the stairs when a slim figure stepped onto the landing below them and started up. It took Sushi a second to recognize her, though he’d been looking for her ever since he’d left Omega Base. “Nightingale!” he said, stopping in his tracks.
Omega Company’s truant medic looked up at him, surprise written plainly on her face. “You!” she said. “What are you two doing here?”
But before Sushi could answer, another voice came from the landing above them. “Oh, shit, it’s Laverna. Security! Security!” shouted Maxine.
After that, Sushi and Do-Wop were far too busy making their getaway to notice which way Nightingale (aka Laverna) went, let alone say anything to her.
* * *
Phule sighed as he walked up through the gardens at La Retraite Rustique. The visit to the floral ballet had been a bust. Not only had he failed to spot Beeker, he’d been unable to leave the Pavilion until the end of the ballet’s first act—a spectacle that was probably just fine if you liked that kind of thing. He could now say with not doubt whatsoever that he didn’t like it. In fact, he really didn’t like it.
Phule realized that something was wrong as soon as he entered the lobby. For one thing, nobody was at the desk. For another, several guests were milling about, arguing with hotel employees, who seemed every bit as confused as the guests. And behind the desk, he could see through an open door to an office that appeared to have been thoroughly ransacked.
“What’s going on?” Phule asked the nearest person who seemed calm enough to have useful information, an elderly man with bristling white whiskers and a ghastly tweed jacket of a cut that only someone of long-established family could wear without being accused of trying out for a part in a bad period drama.
“Demmed ’f I know,” said the bystander. “The management seem to have absconded without notice. Silly of them, what? Now we’re all looking at cold supper, to say the least. Not quite fair play, say I. Not fair at all.”
“When did this happen?” asked Phule. “Everything seemed fine just a little while ago, before I went into town.”
“It happened all of a sudden,” said another guest, a tall woman with startlingly red hair. “One moment, all was quiet—then, Madame came shrieking down the hall, saying that the Legion had come and all was lost. Her senior staff seemed to know what that meant, though I haven’t a notion myself.”
“The Legion’s nothing to be afraid of,” said the bewhiskered man. “Stout fellows—they did my father a good turn, back on St. Elmo’s. Must have been in ’44 …”
“We haven’t time for that old story,” said the red-haired woman. “If these people can’t provide the dinner I’ve paid for in advance, I need to find someplace that will.”
“Unless things are corrected in short order, I shall have to write a letter to the Forum,” said the man firmly, turning to Phule. “I say … I say, where’d the fellow go?”
Phule had gone to inquire elsewhere. He pushed through the kitchen doors, looking for someone with more authority—and, he hoped, better information—than the busboys and dishwashers out front with the guests. Ahead of him, a group of cooks and waiters stood arguing with a woman dressed in a rumpled business suit—some sort of manager, Phule decided. She might actually know something.
“Excuse me, do you have a moment?” said Phule, stepping into the woman’s line of sight.
Her eyes turned cold, and she all but snapped, “I’m afraid I’m pretty well occupied at the …” Then the woman’s gaze fixed itself on the hundred-dollar bill Phule was rubbing between his fingers, and her mouth fell open. “Of course, sir. I’m Aster Igget, the personnel manager. What can I help you with?”
“If she can’t help, I’ll give it one helluva try,” said a man in
a white apron and chef’s hat, ogling the hundred. The woman glared at him, and he backed off, grinning.
Phule lowered his voice. “Just before I left to go into town, the concierge told me that two suspicious-looking men had been asking about me. Did anybody else see these two men?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t,” said the woman. “But I do know that Madame came into the kitchen right as Robert, the concierge, was eating—she was ranting about someone trying to ruin her business. He went with her to her office, and apparently when they came out, they went straight to the door and left. It wasn’t long before someone realized that they’d taken all the cash with them and wiped most of the office files.”
“Interesting,” said Phule. “Obviously they were trying to hide something—but what? And from whom?”
“The boss lady said the Legion had caught up with her,” volunteered the man in the chef’s hat. “That’s your outfit, right? I recognize that uniform …”
“Funny, I’ve been here nearly a week and nobody seemed worried,” said Phule, even more puzzled. “What I’d like to know … wait a minute. Did anybody see a woman in a Legion uniform?”
The employees looked at one another, then one of the waiters said, “Somebody in a black outfit ran through the kitchen and out the back door right before the boss freaked out. I guess it could have been a woman.”
“Aha,” said Phule, putting two and two together. “Do you have any idea where the boss might have gone?”
“She didn’t give her forwarding address to the kitchen help,” said the man in the chef’s hat. “But if she’s in enough trouble to light out that fast, Hix’s World’s too small a place to hide. I’d bet she’s on the way to Old Earth.”
“Why Old Earth?” said Phule.
“There’s a regular flight there three days a week,” said Aster Igget, apparently realizing how little she’d done to earn the hundred-dollar bill Phule was still dangling. “A lot of our guests go there after Hix’s. Joyday, Floraday, Restday—that’s today at 6:00 PM. It’s the quickest way off-planet … and you can pick up a ship to anywhere from Old Earth. That’s where I’d go if I were on the run.”
“Something tells me that’s where I’m headed, too,” said Phule. He handed the hundred to Aster Igget and dug out two more for the other employees who’d offered information. Then he headed for his room to check what the Port-a-Brain had to tell him.
Sure enough, it showed Beeker’s computer exiting Hix’s World on the way to Old Earth. He sighed and began packing for the next flight out.
Chapter Fourteen
Journal #842
The mere fact of Old Earth’s continued existence is something of a miracle—even if one does not entirely accept its claim of being the aboriginal cradle of the human species (a point on which the evidence remains murky). In any case, there are few worlds in which the incredible variety of humanity is on such constant display. Both folly and vice are represented in multiple forms, some perhaps even new.
In the short distance between the spaceport dock and the ground transportation ramp, I was accosted by no fewer than seven individuals offering to relieve me of my cash or credit in furtherance of some scheme or another, none remotely legal. I respectfully declined their offers, confident of finding an abundance of such opportunities should I wish at some future time to avail myself of them.
* * *
Phule sat and fiddled with his Port-a-Brain. He’d called up the data on Old Earth, the next stop in his search for Beeker and Laverna. It felt as if the search had been stretching out for months now—although he knew it couldn’t be that long. Travel by starship was always disorienting, of course, and strange things could happen to time when you ducked through the shortcuts between distant stars. It was widely rumored that a space traveler sometimes arrived at his destination after several hyperspace jumps, placed a call to the home office back on the planet he’d started from, and found himself answering his own call …
Phule had never heard of a documented case of someone arriving back home before he left, although old space hands were always ready to tell tales to groundlings. Phule didn’t like to think about it. All he really wanted was to find his missing butler and get him to hand over the Port-a-Brain. He knew there was a chance he might lose the butler’s trail, and the security chip would throw him into hibernation.
Phule leaned back and sighed, then punched a fist softly into his cupped hand. Time to face reality. Old Earth was going to be his last stop. He’d put all the time and money and energy at his command into the job.
A confident grin came to his face. He wasn’t going to give up the game without putting on a good show. He had more resources on this world than anywhere else he’d been so far—in fact, Old Earth was one of the centers of the family munitions business. Normally, he tried not to take undue advantage of his family connections. But this wasn’t a normal situation—not after he’d searched three planets without so much as a sight of his butler. First thing off the ship, he’d call the local offices of Phule-Proof Munitions and see what they could do to shorten his search. Unless there’d been unusual friction between the branch office and the community, a request for help from a well-established local business ought to carry some weight with the authorities.
What else? He’d need to find somebody with the local knowledge to expedite his search—looking back, he had to admit that the various “native guides” he’d picked up on the other worlds he’d visited hadn’t been a whole lot of help. Here, at least, there was a family member in charge of the local branch office of Phule-Proof Munitions. He hadn’t seen his uncle in years, but Phule knew without asking that the fellow had to be more reliable than Buck Short or Perry Sodden …
He realized with a start that there had only been one really reliable person in his entire life—good old Beeker, who despite his ill-concealed disapproval of Phule’s behavior on many occasions, had always been there with sound advice and an unfailing fund of practical know-how in the most surprisingly diverse areas. The real irony was that Phule was trying to find his one reliable servant—and falling on his face because he didn’t have anyone reliable to help him in the search! If only he could call on Beeker to help him find Beeker …
In fact, there was a way—or at least, in theory there was a way. Unfortunately, it depended entirely on Beeker’s being willing to give up the mad pursuit and come back to his employer. Right here on the Port-a-Brain was a direct link to Beeker’s corresponding machine, which Phule could punch up to send a near-instant message to his absent employee from halfway across the galaxy.
It had one significant shortcoming: there was no way to force Beeker to pay attention to messages he didn’t want to read. In fact, Phule thought, even Beeker might be reluctant to take time on his vacation to read a message from his boss. So until Beeker decided he wanted to hear from his employer, paging him was going to be about as effective as attaching a paper note to a bird’s wings and asking it to deliver it to someone on another planet.
Phule sighed. He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to get sidetracked by pessimism. Not that it was all that easy—especially times like now, when it seemed like the only sane attitude to have …
* * *
“What’s wrong with hi—er, it?” asked Gears, looking at the Andromatic robot simulacrum of Phule. In the absence of Sushi, the company’s closest thing to a computer expert, Lieutenants Rembrandt and Armstrong had decided that Gears might be their best bet for a diagnosis of the robot’s problem. At least, Gears was good with other kinds of machines …
“Hit on the forehead with a golf ball,” said Armstrong. “There’s no visible damage, but then it started acting strangely.”
“And in this outfit, how’d you notice?” said Gears with enough of a straight face that Armstrong nearly answered him. “Seriously, though, what’s it acting like? Maybe that’ll give me some kind of clue. Although it’d be nice to have a schematic of this baby’s brain.”
“If the captain eve
r had a schematic, it’s probably back at the casino offices on Lorelei,” said Rembrandt. “But to answer your question, the best way to describe the problem is, the robot’s trying to do everything by the book, the way General Blitzkrieg wants the company run. It’s acting just like that Major Botchup they sent to run the company the last time the captain was away.”
“Whoa, that’s scary,” said Gears. His face turned serious, and he said, “I hate to tell you this, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid this robot’s broke.”
“You’re kidding,” said Armstrong.
“No, really, it’s pretty messed up,” said Gears.
“All right, I believe you, Gears,” said Rembrandt. “Question is, can you fix it so the general can’t tell—and I mean really fast?”
Gears shrugged. “Robot repair’s a real specialized field. I guess I know my way around the innards of a hoverjeep about as well as anybody in the Legion. I’m not going to tell nobody otherwise. If you want me to fix something else … well, no promises. Maybe Sushi could figure out what’s wrong with it if he was around. But if this was my robot, I wouldn’t even open the cover. I’d send it right back to the factory. These Andromatic models are supposed to come with lifetime guarantees, I hear tell. You know Captain Jester always buys the best.”
“Yeah, too bad the factory’s a couple dozen parsecs away,” said Armstrong, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How about a quick fix? It just has to keep working until the general goes away …”
“Which he isn’t showing any signs of doing, thanks to all the golf matches,” said Rembrandt. “You’d think he’d get tired of the game.”
“He enjoys beating the captain,” said Armstrong, shrugging. “The robot, really, but the general doesn’t know that. Actually, I think the general’s spent so long thinking of Captain Jester as the adversary that winning—and taking a bit of the captain’s money as well—is a special treat, even if it’s only a game.”
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 161