“That almost makes sense,” said Sushi. “West out of town, right-hand road in Brownsville, big cloud of dust. Jeb sent me.”
“That’s the ticket, sonny,” said the cowpoke, benignly. “Say, you oughta buy a feller a drink when he gives you good advice like thet,” he said, turning one of his eyes on Sushi. The other seemed to be aimed somewhere off in the distance.
Sushi began, “I don’t know if we’ve got the-”
“Always time for a drink,” said Do-Wop. “Say, what’s your name, buddy?”
“Well it ain’t Buddy any more’n it’s Jeb. It’s Buck,” said the cowpoke, rising from the bench. “And this here’s the best place I know of for a drink. Not that there’s very many bad ones.”
Recognizing which way the wind was blowing, Sushi went to the bar and returned shortly with a pitcher of beer and three glasses. He set the glasses on the table but didn’t pour any beer. “All right,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “As long as we’re in the business of buying information, let’s make sure we’re getting something worth the price.
“Yo, Soosh, I’m on your team,” said Do-Wop, making a grab for the pitcher. Sushi batted his hand away.
“Yeah, so you can wait until I’m ready to pour the drinks,” said Sushi. “I want to find out what else Buck knows about Old Ben, and about where the captain might have gone-or maybe even Beeker and Nightingale.”
Buck Short frowned. “Nightingale? She some kind of singer?”
Sushi looked at Do-Wop and raised an eyebrow. “Funny-I don’t remember saying Nightingale was a she. Do you remember me saying that?”
“Hey, I wasn’t hardly listen-OOF!” said Do-Wop, as Sushi kicked him under the table. He shot a dirty look at his partner, then belatedly caught the hint. “Uh, no, Soosh-you didn’t say nothin‘ at all about Nightingale bein’ a female. Where’d you get that idea, Buck?”
“Well, it’s a girly kind o‘ name, ain’t it?” said Buck Short. ’“Sides, there was one young lady come through a while back, never did get her name, but she was with a kind of dignified older feller, and wearin‘ the kind of outfit you said she might be wearin’. So it kind of makes sense she’s the one you’re talkin‘ about, don’t it, now.”
“Maybe it does,” said Sushi, directing a doubtful stare at Buck. “But I think you better tell us a little more about this young lady you saw. Where did she and her ‘older feller’ go? Has anybody else been asking about them?”
“You want me to answer all them questions without a drink? My throat’s like to get awful dry…” Buck Short put on his most pitiful expression.
“Answer, and you’ll get your drink,” said Sushi, mildly. “Unless we don’t like your answers… My friend here can get mighty cross when we don’t like answers.” He nodded toward Do-Wop, who was scowling fiercely-most likely at the prospect of having to wait for beer, himself. But there was nothing to be gained by letting Buck know that.
It took a few more not-very-subtle threats, but before long Buck was drinking his beer-and talking up a blue streak. At last, the pitcher was done, and so was the cow-poke. He laid his arms on the table, set his head down on them, and fell almost immediately asleep.
“Well, I guess we’ve found out what we need to know,” said Sushi. “Let’s go see what we can do about it.”
“Ya sure?” said Do-Wop, looking at the empty pitcher. “If this hayseed wakes up, he might remember some other stuff.”
“And cost us a lot more time and bucks,” said Sushi. “Let’s get on the case while there’s still a case to get onto.” He grabbed his partner by the arm and out the door they went.
6
Journal #790-
My employer’s military career exemplifies one major strategy for success in life: He has never missed an opportunity to build one success into another. Consider the incident on Haskin’s Planet, where, entirely by accident, he encountered members of an alien race-a situation loaded with opportunities for horrendous blunders. To my employer’s credit, he kept his wits about him, and not only avoided conflict but struck a commercial bargain with the Zeno-bians, as the aliens called themselves. In addition, he made a friend of the alien commander, Flight Leftenant Qual- who, as it turned out, was destined to become a highly admired hero among his own race.
That might have been a significant accomplishment for most officers; few sophonts are lucky enough to make a first contact with an alien race. But my employer managed to pyramid that initial success into a plum assignment as the commander of the Alliance military mission to Zenobia. A significant posting for a mere captain.
It seems almost irrelevant to note that his superiors believed that they were sending my employer into a position on a backward world from which they sincerely hoped he would never emerge. Little did they think that he would thrive in the post, and that, in the end, they would be coming to Zenobia themselves.
“Listen up, squad, here’s Lieutenant Rembrandt to tell us what we’ve been waiting for,” said Brandy, and Thumper was all ears. Everyone in the squad had been trying to guess what kind of exercise the top sergeant had planned for General Blitzkrieg’s visit to Zenobia Base. Some of the legionnaires said it was going to be an obstacle course demonstration-that being one of Omega Company’s specialties. Others expected some kind of live ammo drill simulating an attack on the camp, or perhaps a march into the desert around the camp, to show off the variety of Zeno-bian wildlife.
Lieutenant Rembrandt stepped forward, with a nice smile that Thumper thought didn’t entirely hide the worry on her face. “Good morning,” she said. “I guess you’ve all heard that we’re expecting an inspection by General Blitzkrieg.”
“Yeah, and the old wingnut thinks he’s gonna surprise us,” said a voice from behind Thumper-Street, it sounded like.
“Right,” said Rembrandt. “Except we’re going to have a few surprises ready for him. That’s where you guys come in…”
“Lieutenant Rembrandt, I have a question,” said Ma-hatma. The squad fell silent. Mahatma’s questions were always worth listening to-even though they made the noncoms and officers nervous. Now that he’d been partnered with Mahatma, Thumper had a better idea why. The little legionnaire was always looking for ways to shake things up-to keep everyone on their toes, he said. Asking a question that nobody had a good answer for was a sure way to do that.
“Go ahead, Mahatma,” said Rembrandt, nodding in the direction of the questioner.
“The captain is away from base, is that not correct?” said Mahatma.
“Yeah, everybody knows that,” said Rembrandt. “But he hasn’t gone far. He’s out in the desert, negotiating with the Namoids. I’ll need a party to go out into the desert-Flight Leftenant Qual will be in command. And I’d like the others to be Mahatma and Brick and Double-X and Garbo. You’ve all been to the area I’m interested in, so you’ll know the ground better than anyone else I could send.”
“Oh ho,” said Mahatma, stroking his chin and nodding. The others in the group Rembrandt had named were nodding, too. “I remember that area. It is where we went to rescue the captain when he was captured.”
“That’s right,” said Rembrandt, a twinkle in her eyes. “But you have to get out there and back without any wasted time so he’s here when the general arrives. I’d like you to be ready to leave by sundown tonight; Qual will meet you at Chocolate Harry’s as soon as you’re dismissed here, to pick up your supplies and get your final orders. You’ll have a little time to straighten out anything you need to take care of before you leave, and then you’re out of here. Got it?”
“Yes, Remmie,” chorused the group, in near unison.
“Now, the other half of my plan,” said Rembrandt. “Word from Headquarters has it that the general loves to play golf-which is an Old Earth game involving funny clubs and little balls and a lot of open ground with holes in it. I don’t know much about the game, but if what I hear is true, once the general starts playing, he hardly has time for anything else. So we’re going to give
him a chance to play, to keep him off our backs.“
“How we gonna do that?” said Street, scratching his head. “Ain’t no golf field here, last time I looked-just lots of desert full of bugoids and funny lizards.”
“You’re right, Street,” said Rembrandt. “We don’t have a golf course-yet. But Lieutenant Armstrong’s played the game, and he knows what a course is supposed to be like. And from what he says, you can make almost any useless tract of land into a golf course, if you really want to. Harry’s also working on getting some clubs sent in. Anyhow, the rest of Brandy’s squad are assigned to Armstrong, and you’re going to build a golf course. You’ve got to build it in record time, too, because we want it ready to play on the minute the general gets here. The better the general likes it, the less trouble he’s likely to cause the rest of us.”
“Do we get to play on the course when it is built?” said Tusk-anini. “Some of the old books I have read mention golf, and I have often wondered how it is played.”
“Sure,” said Rembrandt, shrugging. “Once the general’s gone, it’s there for anybody in the company to play on. Which ought to give you even more reason to do a really good job, right? OK, all of you report to Lieutenant Armstrong, outside the Supply depot in fifteen minutes. Any more questions? No? OK, squad dismissed!”
Phule felt as if he’d been bouncing across the prairies of Cut ‘N’ Shoot on his robosteed for weeks without a rest. In reality, it was just a day and a half since he’d lit out in search of the Indians who had supposedly captured Beeker and Nightingale. Why the Indians would have kidnapped the butler and medic was beyond his ability to understand; but if the other locals with whom he’d had dealings were at all typical, logic didn’t have a whole lot to do with how people acted on this planet.
Fortunately, a stretch as a captain in the Space Legion, and commanding officer of Omega Company, had prepared Phule for dealing with illogic in all its glory. He chuckled as he thought of his crew of misfits and rejects, supposedly the dregs of the Legion-until he’d got hold of them and made them into a tight-knit crew that had overcome every obstacle put in their way. The Omega Mob had a distinctly unregulation way of dealing with its challenges; but the Omega way got results, and that was all that mattered to Phule. Now that he faced his own unexpected challenge, the least he could do was to overcome it in the same style and spirit as his own legionnaires.
Which he intended to do as soon as he reached the place Ol‘ Ben had told him the Indians camped this time of year. He’d have been there long since if he’d been able to take a hoverjeep-but the rulers of Cut ’N‘ Shoot were fanatics for authenticity, and nothing faster than a robosteed was permitted. He had no doubt that a few hundred credits in the right hands would have uncovered exceptions to that policy. But he’d been in too much of a hurry to catch the runaways to stop and feed the hungry bureaucratic maw- or so he’d thought. Now he was paying for his impatience with saddle sores.
All morning he’d been urging the robosteed westward through a particularly inhospitable landscape-01‘ Ben had referred to it as the “badlands,” and Phule could see why. But he had good reason to think he was nearing his destination. When he’d started out, there’d been the merest hint of a column of smoke on the horizon ahead. It had gradually grown thicker, and now the breeze carried a tantalizing aroma of mesquite-and something else. Somebody was cooking, and Phule had an idea that if he could just get his robosteed to move a little faster, he might be there in time for lunch. Whether anybody would offer him anything to eat remained to be seen, but he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by being a pessimist.
The robosteed was stoically plodding up a narrow gulch when a tall figure suddenly appeared, holding a hand up palm forward, in the universal halt sign. “You best be stopping dere, mon,” said the figure in a resonant alto voice. It was a tall woman in colorful, flowing robes, her long dark hair in a multitude of braids. She did not display any kind of weapon, but both her voice and her presence radiated authority.
“Good morning,” said Phule, pulling the robosteed to a halt and raising his own hand in a similar gesture to hers. “I’m looking for two people…”
“Maybe you find dem, if dey want you to,” said the woman, crossing her arms in front of her. “What makes you think dey be here?”
“Everyone back in town said the Indians took them…” Phule began.
“Oh, sure, mon, blame de Indian,” said the woman. “What dey know back in town, anyway? Dey think all Indians be the same.”
“Well, I’m a stranger here, myself,” said Phule. Realizing he hadn’t given his name, he added, “I’m Captain Jester, of the Space Legion.”
“Captain,” said the woman, nodding. “I am glad to know de name. People call me Rita.”
Phule nodded back. “A pleasure to meet you, Rita. So, if the folks back in town are wrong about the Indians, maybe you can set me right.” He paused, looking the woman up and down. “Uh-you are an Indian, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, West Indian,” said Rita. She pointed to the north. “You go a little bit dat-a-way, you find de East Indians. And de other way, you find de Red Indians, or de Wild Indians, de tourists like to call dem. Which kind of Indian are you wanting to find, Captain?”
“I don’t know which kind,” said Phule, now perplexed. “A fellow in town told me the people I’m lookin for were probably captured by the Indians. He didn’t tell me there were so many kinds of Indians…“
“I told you dey townspeople don’t know ‘bout Indians,” Rita scoffed. “Who dese people you trying to find? Friends of yours?”
“I guess you could call them that,” said Phule. “I’m looking for two people, a man and woman traveling together…”
Rita cut him off with a laugh. “You know how many tourists fit dat picture? Almost everybody who come here, dey come in couples. You may be de only single man I see dis year, and you say you not a tourist. So how I know dem if I see dem?”
“Hmmm…” said Phule, trying to think of a way to distinguish Beeker and Nightingale from other tourist couples. “An older man with a younger woman,” he said. “She’s maybe thirty, tall and dark-skinned like you. He’s shorter and about forty-five-I think. I don’t know how they’re dressed-the last time I saw them, she was wearing the same kind of uniform I am, and he was in a dark suit. But I doubt they’re wearing that on their vacation…”
Rita nodded. “Captain, come wit‘ me.” She turned and began to walk back up the trail Phule had been following.
“Wait-where are you taking me?” he said, putting his robosteed into forward mode again.
“We goin‘ to see de Mon,” said Rita, and Phule had nothing to do but to follow her.
Chocolate Harry looked out over the large plot he’d just marked off to the south of Zenobia Base. It was about the most worthless piece of land in the vicinity; good for a practice bombing range, if Omega Company had included any bomber pilots it wanted to turn loose on some simulated targets. Or maybe the plot would’ve been good enough to con some gullible investor into a land deal, although Harry was fairly sure that no investor who actually laid eyes on the place was likely to buy it. After all, even the Zenobians had no particular use for it-at least, not until they’d ended up leasing it to the Legion as part of the Zenobian Base.
Now he’d been ordered to turn it into a golf course. Lieutenant Armstrong had drawn up a set of plans for three golf holes-all they’d have the time to build before General Blitzkrieg arrived on base. It was going to be Harry’s job to take that worthless patch of ground and make Armstrong’s plan a reality.
Things had come along reasonably well, he had to admit. He’d already turned loose a couple of squads with flamethrowers to get rid of the worst of the gnarly Zeno-bian desert vegetation. Heavy earthmovers would follow, doing what they could to turn the brutal ravine-crossed terrain into something a sane sophont might want to take an occasional recreational stroll over.“ With any luck, the brush fires and rumbling machines would have driven off
at least the larger local predators by the time he sent the squads back out for pick-and-shovel work.
But to judge by the reports coming back from the construction gangs, it wasn’t the large predators that were going to be a problem. The whole area was apparently the prime breeding grounds for some kind of Zenobian critter-Flight Leftenant Qual had identified them as “florbigs,” and dismissed them as harmless. Harmless they may have been, and there were even a few of the legionnaires who thought they were “sorta cute,” as Brick put it. They also had an unfortunate habit of darting out of the underbrush to steal any small object left unattended for more than a moment. This included hand tools, the workers’ lunch, and the occasional article of apparel. And they were fast-most of the time, the workers never got a glimpse of them until they were scurrying away with somebody’s sandwich. Harry’s first instinct was to send out another flamethrower squad to get rid of the vermin, once and for all.
But Harry made the mistake of asking Lieutenant Rembrandt’s permission, which was when he learned of a provision in the treaty that Captain Jester had signed with the Zenobians-a clause inserted on the insistence of the Extraterrestrial Protection Agency, forbidding the Legion to harass any local creature, no matter what the natives thought of the matter. And despite his attempts to prove the contrary, toasting the critters with flamethrowers was definitely a form of harassment. This left Harry with two choices: hire a squad of Zenobians to get rid of the florbigs or put up with them. After a discreet inquiry as to the going rate for local exterminators, he reluctantly chose the latter option.
Then there was some kind of gravitational anomaly in the middle of the tract. Nothing big and dangerous, like a stray white hole, but definitely something that didn’t match the gravitational profile of the rest of the plot of land. Harry’d sent a crew out to locate it, but the best they could do was report that it was something like a hundred yards underground, more trouble than it was worth to try to dig up. Besides, its profile on the surface was almost small enough to ignore entirely-an area about twenty feet across that, gravitationally, acted as if it were a sharp pinnacle instead of a flat surface. That would’ve been almost no problem at all-if it hadn’t been smack in the middle of something Armstrong’s plan marked as “second fairway.” Harry didn’t know what a fairway was, but according to the plan he had to get grass to grow on it. That was going to be tricky…
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