A Phule and his Money

by Robert Asprin; Peter J. Heck

  While Phule was speaking, Rev had stood quietly to one side of the podium; his head was bowed, and his hands were clasped over his breastbone. He might have been a lawyer preparing to deliver a jury summation. Now he stepped to the podium, waited for the patter of polite applause to die, and began. "Thank you, friends. You know, from time to time in our busy lives, a voice speaks to us--a voice we can't ignore. It may be the voice of a loved one, a mother, or a wife. It may be the voice of someone in authority, like your captain. Or it may be a quieter voice that comes from way down deep inside, remindin' each and every one of us about a duty left undone. A call, we term it in my line of work. I have had a call to this company, and here I stand before you in response to it."

  Rev paused a moment, lowered his head and took a deep breath, then looked up at his audience and continued. "I have been called here to tell you about--the King." he said in a voice that resonated with significance.

  "The King? What king?" It was Gabriel who spoke, but the same question was in the minds of every man, woman, and alien in the chaplain's audience.

  "That's a fair question, son," said Rev, stepping in front of the podium and rubbing his hands together. "A fair question--and the answer is a story that's oft been told, so many times that I know it by heart--but since y'all may not have heard it, I guess it won't hurt none to tell again. A long time ago, on old Earth, there was a poor boy. A mighty poor boy--but one with a gift, and a spirit to make the most of himself. And make the most of himself he did. Why, in a few short months, he became the most imitated man on old Earth. He was on every screen, in every printout, on every frequency--and he was takin' in money faster than this here casino. He could have had anything he wanted. And do you know what he did? He went out and became a soldier. Not an officer, now. Not even a sergeant--a regular soldier, carryin' a gun and marchin' and takin' orders."

  "What for he do that, if he the king?" said another legionnaire--his name was Street, Rev remembered. "How come he don't buy hisself a 'mission, be an officer?"

  "Because he never forgot what it was like to be a poor boy, Street," said Rev, strutting back and forth in front of the assembly. "Not even after he finished with the army, and went back to givin' folks what they wanted. He didn't want to forget what it was like to be just a regular fellow, and he made sure he had somethin' to remember it by. So he never lost his touch with the real people. The little people like he'd been when he was still a poor boy. And they never forgot him. But he never put his nose up in the air. He could have gone anywhere in the world, talked to anybody he wanted to--presidents and governors and ladies so pretty they could make you forget your name. But he wanted to stay close to the people. And so he went to Vegas--which was the Lorelei of old Earth--and brought his gift to folks who gambled their money there, 'cause it was the only way for them to rise above their unhappy state. That's when he really became the King--when he brought himself to where the people who really needed him could see him. You see what I mean, Street?" He pointed at the legionnaire, his head lowered and his gaze intense.

  "Maybe I do," said Street, noncommittally. He folded his arms across his chest and sat there, looking at Rev without quite meeting the chaplain's eye.

  "Sure you do," said Rev. He clapped his hands. "And because the King went out to the casinos, givin' the people an example of how a poor boy could rise to the top, showin' 'em they just needed to find their gift and follow where it led, I feel very 'specially at home here with y'all on Lorelei. It's the kind of place the King would have gone to do his work, before he Left the Buildin'."

  The faces in the audience usually told Rev how well his word was being received. Now, looking at the Omega Mob, he saw rapt stares on more than one face--the look that told him his words were striking home. Some of them nodded tacit agreement; others held their chins higher than usual, inspired by his story. It was time to pick up the tempo, to swing the entire crowd along with him.

  "The King knows how you feel," Rev said, rising up on the balls of his feet. There was a rhythm to his speech now. "He's been down low, and rose up high again. He took a walk down

  Lonely Street

  , and came back to Graceland. He went into the Army and did his duty like a man. When he had hard times, he knew how to make a comeback--and he came back in style. He went to Hollywood, he went to Vegas, and he stayed the same as when he was a poor boy. And he can help you make your comeback, yes he can!"

  "How's he gonna do that?" came a voice from the back of the audience.

  "Well, that's what I'm here to tell y'all," said Rev, grinning broadly now. "On account of he spent so many years in Vegas, the King knew how folks could get in over their heads at the casinos. Losin' money they couldn't afford to lose, bettin' on somethin' they thought was a sure thing. Takin' out loans at bad interest rates to pay off their tabs, or sellin' all their valuables. Well, I've found out that some of y'all are in that same fix. And here's what I'm a-gonna do. Every one of you who comes forward and pledges to follow the King, the Church will pay your gamblin' debts in full, one lump sum--you'll be on that comeback trail right there and then. How's that sound, now?"

  "That sounds too good to be true," came the same voice from the back of the room. The speaker rose to his feet, and everybody turned to see Do-Wop standing there, a suspicious look on his face. "Ain't no free rides, not where I come from. So what's the catch, Rev? I'm in far enough over my head to grab anything that floats. But I wasn't born yesterday. I want to hear the whole swindle--what do I have to do if the King pays off my tab?"

  "Why, I'd think that's understood, son," said Rev. "You would be promisin' to become one of his faithful followers. To do like he said, and bring the message to other folks, too."

  "I figured that much out by myself," said Do-Wop, his arms folded across his chest. "So what's the scam? Lay it on me, Rev, so I figure out whether to bite or not." He stood there expectantly, and the assembled legionnaires fell silent, waiting for the answer.

  "You've got to be a true follower," said Rev. "That means you have to make a pilgrimage to Graceland, back on old Earth--you can't be a full believer till you've done that. And it means making yourself in his image. His faithful often have plastic surgery to be more perfect, although it's not required right away. And..."

  "Hold on, Rev," said Do-Wop. "Plastic surgery? I gotta change the way I look?"

  "That's right, son, changing the way you look is a way to change the way you act, so you won't be cruel. After everything the King is gonna do for you, it's the least you can do to show how you appreciate him. Why, I've had the operation myself--take a look." Rev turned one side of his face to the audience, then the other, before looking back at Do-Wop and smiling. "Now, what do you say, son?"

  Do-Wop looked at the chaplain, his face an unreadable mask. The room was dead silent, as everyone waited for him to speak.

  Finally, he looked at Rev and said, "Man, I can't do it. Count me out--I owe Sushi enough to send him on that trip to Greaseland, but I guess I gotta pay it off myself."

  "What?" said Rev, his jaw dropping. "Why? What could possibly be wrong with my offer?"

  Do-Wop looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Rev, the way I see it, you're offering me a face worse than debt."

  The crowd dissolved in laughter.

  Chapter 6

  Journal #307

  My employer was confident that a focus on the company's military priorities would allow his people to forget about the external problems, which would then more or less resolve themselves. As I had feared, this belief turned out to be over-optimistic. In fact, the problems remained on the edge of everyone's awareness, putting the entire command cadre into a constant state of anxiety that something would boil over into an outright crisis.

  The only two who seemed unaffected by the ongoing crises were Flight Leftenant Qual, who went around the hotel observing and making enigmatic comments; and Chaplain Rev, who despite Do-Wop's public refusal of his offer to pay off gambling debts, seemed to be winning a fair n
umber of converts. For the rest, it was chaos as usual...

  "OK, rookies, fall in," shouted Brandy. The new recruits hastily assembled themselves into a formation--most with a helter-skelter clumsiness she hoped they'd soon outgrow, but the Gambolts flowed into position like water running downhill. Brandy had to admit, she'd never seen anybody so natural at the things a legionnaire had to do. "Now we're going to have some fun. Today we begin unarmed combat instruction. Sergeant Escrima will assist me."

  Standing on the thick gymnastics mat next to Brandy, whose physical bulk more than matched her parade-ground vocal equipment, the mess sergeant looked for all the world like a miniature statue of a human being. That was highly misleading, as the new troops were about to learn.

  "OK, I'm going to demonstrate a basic move, and then you'll get a chance to try it for yourselves. Can I have a volunteer?"

  The rookies looked at one another nervously--they'd already had occasion to find out how strong Brandy was. A couple of hands went up, tentatively. Brandy ignored them, and pointed to Mahatma. "Here, this isn't hard--why don't you try it first?"

  The little round-faced man--his belly had already begun to lose its roundness--came forward onto the mat and Brandy stood facing him. "I'm going to show this to you in slow motion," she said to the troops. "This is a very basic move, one that lots of others are built on. Watch." She stepped closer to Mahatma.

  "Now, watch what happens first," she said. Brandy reached out her hand and pushed Mahatma in the center of his chest. He stepped backward, keeping his balance. "OK, Mahatma, tell me what I did and what you did."

  "You pushed me, and I stepped away," he said, smiling as always. "Would a battlefield opponent let you push him like that?" It had become almost a joke: Whatever you did to him, Mahatma took it with a smile--and followed up with a question that threatened to undercut the whole exercise.

  Brandy temporized. "I'll get to that. For now, the idea is, when I push you, you start to lose your balance. You're falling backward, so you step back to catch your balance again. Sounds easy, when you explain it. But let's try that again, with a little difference."

  She stepped up to Mahatma, and again pushed him in the center of the chest. But this time, her foot had snaked out to ensnare his leg before he could catch his balance, and he fell backward onto the mat.

  "You see it?" she asked the other recruits. "Keep the opponent from stepping backward, and he's got no place to go. All he can do is fall." She reached down and helped Mahatma to his feet. "Now, you try it on me."

  "All right, sarge," said Mahatma. He reached up and pushed Brandy, putting his foot behind her. She fell down, twisting as she fell, and rolled back up to her feet almost as soon as she was down.

  "That's the second part of the lesson," she said. "If your opponent knows how to recover, you won't have the advantage for long. So you have to be ready to follow up right away. Now, who else would like to try it?"

  This was the point at which she usually got somebody who'd had a little martial arts training as a civilian. One of the new troops--the one who'd had his hand up before, she noticed--had a smirk on his face. "OK, Slammer, your turn."

  Slammer swaggered out of the lineup, and took a stance opposite Brandy, his weight evenly balanced on the balls of his feet. He had obviously had training, and he looked to be in better than average physical condition for a recruit. Brandy suppressed a smile, then said, "Aw, let's make it a little bit more of an even contest. I must outweigh you twenty pounds." (It was more like fifty, but nobody had ever called her on that--not to her face.) "Here, Sergeant Escrima is more your size."

  Escrima stepped forward to take Brandy's place, his face impassive. Now the recruit had the weight advantage--probably thirty pounds, and several inches in reach. "OK, Slammer, let's see you try the move on Escrima."

  As Brandy had anticipated, Slammer grinned broadly and stepped up to Escrima, evidently planning on some spectacular throw instead of the simple technique she'd demonstrated. The recruit grabbed the little sergeant by one arm and began to turn so as to flip him over his hip. What happened next was hard to follow, but it ended with Slammer falling flat on his back from what seemed a considerable height, with an impressive thud. Escrima pounced on him like a hawk, one knee across a biceps, one hand on Slammer's throat, and the other poised in a fist in front of his face.

  "Third part of the lesson," Brandy said to the other recruits, who stared in awe at their fallen comrade. "Never take an opponent for granted. You go into combat, there's no such thing as a fair fight. No rules, no refs, no timeouts, and no points for style. Slammer tried to get fancy with Escrima, and look where it got him."

  Escrima let Slammer get up, and the recruit returned to his place in the formation, rubbing his biceps where the sergeant had kneeled on it. "OK, now you're going to break up into pairs and try the move I showed you. Stick with the lesson, and we'll show you all more moves as soon as everybody's had a chance to practice this one."

  The recruits broke up into pairs, spreading around the mats and trying the technique Brandy had shown them. Inevitably, a few of them had trouble even with something this elementary--and others tried to show off, attempting more complicated moves. It was about as typical a training session as Brandy had ever seen.

  Except for the Gambolts. Their feline anatomy put an entirely new twist on everything. Pushed backward, even with a leg confined, they would simply do a backflip and land back on their feet, quicker than any human athlete. Once again, the Gambolts were simply leagues beyond their human counterparts. The other recruits had noticed by now, and there was muttering among them. When the exercise was finished, there was a distinct look of resignation on a number of the recruits' faces.

  As the training session progressed, there were more and more discouraged faces. The Gambolts made everything look easy, and the humans were rapidly coming to realize that they were outclassed by three recruits as fresh out of civilian life as they were. Normally, Brandy would have known what to do with a recruit so clearly superior. After all, a sergeant had the benefit of years of training--and a willingness to play whatever trick was needed to bring a recruit into line. A few quick falls with someone like Escrima, and even a fairly advanced martial arts student would be properly humbled.

  But the Gambolts were so good, she wasn't sure even Escrima could put them in their place. It didn't take much foresight to see that this was going to be a real problem...

  "Those Renegades are still snooping around, Captain," said Lieutenant Rembrandt. "I'd like to find some way to get rid of them."

  "I take it they haven't done anything we can use as grounds for barring them from the casino?" said Phule, tapping a pencil on his desk. For the second or third day in a row, the daily officer's briefing was shaping up as a series of unsolved problems. He didn't like that, but for the moment, the problems remained intractable.

  "Not unless we do it for general obnoxiousness," said Lieutenant Armstrong. "That's within our rights. From what I can tell, anything a casino owner wants to do--up to and possibly including outright murder--is legal here on Lorelei."

  "That's one of the few benefits of the mob having made the rules for so long," said Rembrandt, nodding. "We can bar anyone from the Fat Chance for any reason we concoct. But I don't think we can expel them from the station unless we catch them cheating at the tables, or damaging casino property, or running some kind of credit fraud. And the Renegades have been careful not to do that."

  "Where are they staying?" asked Beeker. "Perhaps you could call in a favor from one of your fellow casino owners."

  "They're at the Tumbling Dice," said Rembrandt, a sour look on her face. "That's Maxine Pruett's home base. Not much chance of calling in a favor from her."

  "No indeed," said Phule, glumly. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that she had something to do with their discovery that Chocolate Harry was here with us." A frown came over his face. "Interesting that we've had so many outsiders arriving to make trouble for us all at the sam
e time, isn't it?"

  "The Renegades, the Yakuza, and the IRS," said Beeker. "There does appear to be a pattern there. At least, young Sushi appears to have deflected the Yakuza for the time being. And I can certify that your personal books are in excellent order--even if the revenue agents are inclined to nitpick, I am confident that you can come out of anything except the most hostile audit with a clean nose."

  "Good man, Beeker," said Phule. "I have complete faith in you to handle that end of things. But the Chocolate Harry situation has to be taken care of. Turning his supply depot into a fortified position has kept the Renegades at bay, but the hassle factor is hurting efficiency. When somebody has to go through a security checkpoint to get a can of vacuum grease or a spare battery, they're likely to go without--and that means some piece of equipment won't be working right. On the other hand, if we make C.H. dismantle all his defenses, the Renegades will have an open shot at him."

  "Which brings us back to the question of how to neutralize the Renegades," said Armstrong, scowling. He slapped his hand on the arm of his chair and said, "I say we snatch them when they're off their guard, then find some pretext to kick them out of Lorelei. Let Maxie yell about it after they're gone."

  "You would risk getting people hurt," Beeker pointed out.

  "We'll be in a sad state when the Legion can't handle a few civilian brawlers," said Armstrong. He raised his chin, and his chest swelled. "I expect we'd deal out considerably better than we got, Captain."

  "I know our people can take care of themselves, Lieutenant," said Phule. "But we're in an enclosed space full of civilians, and we can't go throwing our weight around every time we feel like it. I'll try your approach if nothing else works, but I want to see what other options we have, first."

  "There's another problem with that approach," said Rembrandt. "If Maxine Pruett's causing all this trouble, throwing the Renegades out would be only a temporary solution. She'll find another way to harass us--and I think we can count on her to keep doing it as long as we're here."