A Phule and his Money

by Robert Asprin; Peter J. Heck

  "You're right," said Phule. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I suspect she is behind most of our recent troubles, though I can't prove it. If she can keep us responding to a hundred minor nuisances, she'll weaken us for responding to a really serious threat from some other quarter. It's classic guerilla tactics."

  "Is there any way to go after Pruett directly?" asked Armstrong.

  "Not without exceeding our authority," said Phule. "And not without risking civilian casualties. For that kind of direct action against her, we'd need a really blatant provocation--and Maxie's not foolish enough to provide one. Even if she did, General Blitzkrieg would find a way to turn it to our discredit."

  "You know, I wonder if this company hasn't outgrown its mission here," said Rembrandt. "Lorelei looked like a plum assignment when we got it, and--all difficulties aside--our stint here has been very rewarding. But casino guard duty isn't exactly what I joined up for, and I'm afraid it's having a negative effect on the company's readiness for its larger mission."

  "Hmmm--I'd begun to think something like that myself," said Phule. "The casino doesn't need an elite Legion company to break up bar fights and discourage cheaters. I'm afraid a lot of our people are in danger of losing their edge because nothing they do requires it of them."

  "That's how I feel," said Armstrong. "A bunch of civilians could do most of this job as well as we can. If it weren't for Pruett trying to horn in, we could leave our actors-in-uniform behind to stand guard. With a cadre of trained security guards to take care of more serious trouble, the place would be as safe as it is now."

  "You're probably right," said Phule, nodding. "The only flaw in that picture is that Maxine Pruett won't go away. Even if she did, some other mobster would step into her shoes."

  "Back to square one," said Armstrong. "If the place weren't so profitable, I'd advise you to wash your hands of it."

  "Oh, I'd sell in a nanosecond, for the right price," said Phule. "The worst mistake an investor can make is holding on to something past time to sell it."

  Beeker nodded approvingly. "Remember, though--it's just as bad to sell something too early, out of panic. Maxie Pruett would love to see you sell the casino too cheaply. She'd have control of it within six months--if not immediately."

  "Yeah, I bet she'd be moving in the back door as you went out the front," said Rembrandt.

  "Well, for now, I'm standing pat," said Phule. "The right time to move on will come--and when it does, we'll be ready. Until then, we'll make the best of what we have."

  "Yes, sir," said Rembrandt and Armstrong. Neither one looked especially happy.

  "Too much happening," said Tusk-anini wearily. "Not good--can make one little mistake into very big one."

  "I know what you mean," said Super-Gnat. The diminutive legionnaire was freshly off duty, and was still wearing the cocktail waitress costume that allowed her to move among the casino crowds without attracting undue attention--except from those gamblers whose glass was empty. "This company can handle any kind of trouble, as long as we attack it as a team. But now we've got Chocolate Harry holed up because of those outlaw bikers, and it's a major expedition to get into supply depot. And you saw those IRS agents sneaking around for info about the captain. What's worse, it looks like we've got a spy in the company."

  "Is method for this in military textbooks," said Tusk-anini. The giant Volton legionnaire had been spending late nights poring through books on every conceivable human subject, especially Lieutenant Armstrong's library of military history texts. "Hold position against one enemy while concentrate strength against another. Defeat in detail, is called. Work good in theory, maybe not so easy in practice."

  "Not so easy in practice," repeated Super-Gnat. "That ought to be the Legion motto--at least, the way most of the Legion runs. We're lucky to have a commander who doesn't do things the regular way, you know, Tusk?"

  Tusk-anini snorted--it was a very piglike snort, which somebody not used to Voltons might have taken wrong. Super-Gnat knew it was the equivalent of a low chuckle in humans. "Is more than luck," he said. "Captain had to make some bad mistake to get sent to our company. But he no fool--and that no joke, either. He show us we can be best company in Legion, and make us work hard to do it. He got to be best commander in the Legion."

  "I'm with you on that one," agreed Super-Gnat. "But remember, he didn't get here without making enemies--and not all of them are outside the Legion. Mother told me that the top brass think the captain's showing them up, and they want to put him in his place. That's bound to mean trouble for the rest of us, too. We've come through everything OK so far, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

  "I no hear shoe drop," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "When this happen?"

  "Uh, that's not meant literally, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "What I mean is, I keep expecting them to send the company someplace really rotten, like the middle of a war zone or something, to get the captain in trouble."

  "That not going to happen, because there no wars going on right now," said Tusk-anini, patiently. "You worry too much, Gnat."

  "Maybe I do," said Super-Gnat. "But remember, it hasn't been so long since there was a war--in fact, I hear tell that's where the captain pulled the SNAFU that got him sent here. I don't know whether you were paying attention to the scuttlebutt, but word was that he talked a couple of pilots into strafing an enemy position--except he didn't know that's where the peace talks were going on. And it's a big galaxy--there could be another war breaking out almost anywhere, and we could find ourselves being sent to fight."

  "Who we fight?" Tusk-anini looked skeptical--not easy behind his specially fitted dark glasses, worn to protect his sensitive eyes from normal light. "No enemies around to fight--plenty of room for all species, not like old Earth before space flight. No reason for wars."

  "So why's there a Space Legion, then?" Super-Gnat put her hands on her hips and stared up belligerently at her big partner. "For that matter, why's there Regular Army or Starfleet? Seems to me the government's paying a lot to keep fighting forces around if there aren't going to be any more wars. But that's not what I'm getting at. Even if there's not a war, there are ways the brass could try to shaft the captain--and believe you me, Tusk, they'll be trying to find them."

  Tusk-anini snorted again. "Captain not alone. Maybe generals find some way to get captain in trouble, but we no let it happen because trouble for captain mean trouble for us."

  "You've got the right idea there, Tusk," said Super-Gnat. "But there's one thing you should never forget: Generals usually don't care about whether they get regular troops in trouble. We're warm bodies to throw at a problem until it goes away. That's what makes our captain different--he cares about us because somehow, deep inside, he knows he's like us. So we have to take care of him, too."

  "We take care of him," agreed Tusk-anini. "So let other shoe drop--we catch it before it hit the floor."

  "That's the right idea," said Super-Gnat. "Now that we've got that much figured out, why don't we go down to the pub and see if we can figure out which foot the other shoe is on?"

  The Omega Mob had never formally adopted the Olde English Pub, in the basement of the Fat Chance Casino, as the company watering hole. Nonetheless, at any given hour you could find legionnaires hanging out there--sipping a drink, playing games, or tossing darts, and talking about the things that off-duty military personnel have talked about from time immemorial. The legionnaires didn't keep the civilian casino customers from using the Pub--the captain would have frowned on any attempt at that--but they clearly set its tone.

  The Pub was especially noisy tonight, with several groups of legionnaires, in and out of uniform, gathered in different sections. There was a serious game of Tonk going on at one table; Street was the big winner so far, but Double-X had been on a hot streak for several hands, and the banter between the two was getting louder as the stakes got bigger. At the corner table farthest from the blaring tri-vid set, Doc and Moustache
were playing a quieter, if not necessarily calmer, game: blitz chess. Two or three other legionnaires looked on, waiting to play the winner.

  In still another corner, Do-Wop was holding forth with a string of stories, most of which were of highly dubious veracity, although he swore up and down that he had been a witness, if not a personal participant, in all of them. The circle of listeners included Dee Dee, between sets on her evening show, Junior, Super-Gnat, and Tusk-anini. The latter, perhaps because of his limited experience of human ways, was the only one who didn't appear downright skeptical of Do-Wop's yarns.

  "So then I say to the cop, 'Yeah, I'm the owner of this whole building,'" said Do-Wop. "Well, I could tell he wasn't buyin' it..."

  "Why you want cop to buy building?" asked Tusk-anini, his eyes riveted on Do-Wop.

  "Not the building, Tusk--I wanted him to buy the story, see?" Do-Wop tapped his fingertips on the tabletop. This was not the first interruption from the giant Volton.

  Tusk-anini's frown deepened. "You want him to buy story? Was cop magazine editor?"

  "Aw, gimme a break, Tusk," said Do-Wop, while the ring of onlookers broke into laughter. "I might as well try sellin' hooch to robots. Just let me finish the story, and then ask your questions, capisce?"

  "But I no capisce," said Tusk-anini, who had spent plenty of sessions listening to Do-Wop's stories in the past. "That why I ask questions."

  Do-Wop threw up his hands. "Jeez, cool it with the questions for a while, will ya? Now, where was I?"

  "Probably about halfway to getting yourself thrown in jail," said a new voice, and Do-Wop looked up to see Sushi, standing there with a broad smile.

  "Yo, man, long time no see!" said Do-Wop, jumping to his feet and throwing an arm around his partner. "Last anybody heard, you was kidnapped by the Yazookas."

  "Yakuza, and there was only one of them," said Sushi, laughing as he returned Do-Wop's hug. "And the guy didn't kidnap me--we went off to transact some business. Which went exactly the way I wanted it to, I might add."

  "Knowin' you, it was some kind of monkey business," said Do-Wop, who'd been a complete stranger to the subtler forms of chicanery before Phule had teamed him with Sushi. "You gonna tell us the story?"

  "Hey, you no finish your story!" protested Tusk-anini, as Sushi plopped himself in a vacant chair, signalling for the waitress.

  "Later, Tusk, later," said Do-Wop, waving his hand at the Volton. "The man's been runnin' games, and I gotta know the score. Spill, buddy, spill!"

  Sushi leaned forward and began, "Well, I guess everybody's heard about the start of it. I was on duty in the casino, in the blackjack section. The dealer spotted a couple of players passing cards..."

  "Sssst! Careful what saying, here comes spy!" said Tusk-anini.

  "Spy? Where?" Sushi looked puzzled.

  "Quiet, he's coming this way," whispered Super-Gnat, putting a hand on Sushi's elbow. "Let us handle him, and we'll tell you what it's about later."

  Sushi nodded just as Flight Leftenant Qual came up to the table. Agile as he was when running flat-out, his normal walking gait was a comic waddle. "Greetings, comrades," said the little Zenobian. "May I join your gathering?"

  "Guess we can't stop you," muttered Do-Wop.

  "Ah, that must be humor!" said Qual. His translator gave out a strange sound somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, which might have been its attempt to render Zenobian laughter into human speech. Whatever the meaning, it did nothing to ingratiate him with the legionnaires.

  Qual pulled an empty chair over from a nearby table and seated himself between Tusk-anini and Do-Wop, both of whom cast baleful stares at him. "So, is this how Legion spends evenings?" he asked, looking around the group.

  "Who needs to know?" asked Do-Wop. His tone did not invite further discussion.

  Qual's translator was not set to make fine distinctions between tones. "Pardon, did I not introduce myself? I am Flight Leftenant Qual," he said, showing his teeth. "Military attache from Zenobian Empire."

  "We know who you are," said Super-Gnat, her voice dripping icicles. "And we know what you're here for, too."

  "Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table. "It is to be sympathetic, not so? Let this one purchase the next circle of drinks!"

  "No want drink," said Tusk-anini, his eyes narrowed.

  "Me neither," said Do-Wop, though his glass was empty. He was not often known to pass up a round when someone else was buying. The others who'd been sitting at the table all indicated their refusal.

  The only exception was Sushi. "Well, I just got here, so I'm dry," he said. "If you're buying, I'm drinking."

  "Excellent," said Qual, slapping the table again. "I am doleful none of your comrades are thirsty, but perhaps some different time. I like your custom of having one bring the drinks--it makes more time for mingling than when each must go to the pool for itself."

  "Assuming you want to mingle," commented Super-Gnat, casting a significant glance toward Qual. "And now that I think of it, I guess I've had all the mingling I want tonight. Tusk, are you ready?"

  "Tusk-anini ready," agreed the Volton, rising to his feet.

  He nearly brushed the ceiling, towering over the little Zenobian. "Good seeing most of you," he said, and turned to follow Super-Gnat away.

  "Time for me to get ready for my third set," said Dee Dee, standing up. One after another, the others at the table also made excuses and exited. Finally only Sushi sat there with Qual, waiting for their drinks to come.

  "A shame so many had to leave," said Qual. "I will simply have to get to know them some other time."

  "So it would seem," said Sushi. He pulled his chair up closer to Qual. "But there's no reason for us to be strangers. Tell me, Flight Leftenant, what kinds of things are you most interested in finding out about our people?"

  "Why, almost everything," said Qual, his teeth gleaming in the flickering barroom lights. "You are much unlike my race in many ways. To begin with..."

  The conversation stretched into the late hours.

  Chapter 7

  Journal #310

  The key to happiness in life is timing. This is certainly true in finance: Sell stock early or late, and you will always blame yourself. The same is true in military affairs: A general who commits his reserves too soon may see them beaten back by an enemy still strong, and one who delays is likely to find the battle already lost. Even a thing as trivial as entering a room can be done at better and worse times.

  My employer had the knack of good timing. Perhaps it was inherited--his father had certainly been adept at timing the introduction of new products. Or perhaps young Phule had simply inherited a more mysterious, but even more useful, trait: the ability to convince everyone around that what one has just done was precisely the right thing to do at that particular time.

  "Too good?" Armstrong guffawed. "Some of our troops are too good? That's the first time this company's been accused of that!"

  "Lieutenant, I sincerely hope it's not the last time," said Phule, pacing behind his desk. "But if Brandy says it's a problem, I want to hear about it. Sergeant?"

  Brandy had an unaccustomed worried look on her face. "Well, Captain, those Gambolts are so good that the other recruits can't keep up with them. I ask for a hundred pushups, and they finish them before the rest have done twenty. We practice unarmed combat and nobody can touch 'em. We haven't run the obstacle course yet--it's still being set up, over in the park--but I'll bet my stripes that when we do run it, the Gambolts will make everybody else look sick."

  Armstrong let out an appreciative whistle. "Great. This company's needed somebody to set an example for our people. Now the rest have something to emulate."

  "Except they can't," said Brandy, shaking her head. "They might as well try to outrun a laser beam. Any time speed or strength or agility makes the difference, the cats have the humans completely outclassed. And the whole training platoon is starting to get discouraged. Unless we can figure out something, their morale's going to go straight down the pipe
s, Captain."

  "It seems to me we had this same problem right after I came to the unit," said Phule. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, leaning forward. "It was the obstacle course that gave us all the answer, if you'll remember."

  "Sure, I remember," said Brandy. "That turned the whole company around--showing us that working as a group we can accomplish things that only a few of us can do by ourselves."

  "The recruits need to learn that lesson," said Phule. "And I think the Gambolts especially need to learn it. But for it to work, we'll have to change the exercise a little. Tell me what you think about this idea..."

  He went to the sketchboard and began outlining a variation on the Omega Mob's obstacle course exercise. At first Armstrong and Brandy were skeptical, pointing out flaw after flaw. Phule adapted his plan in response to their objections, and soon the three were working together, eagerly designing the new exercise. It was late at night when they declared it ready, but they were convinced they had the answer.

  Still, the whole plan depended on the new troops rising to the occasion. So far, there'd been no sign they were capable of it. Unless that changed, Phule's Company was in danger of returning to the mediocrity from which it had risen.

  "What the hell's going on over there?" Maxie Pruett gestured toward the Fat Chance Casino. The gesture was unnecessary; everyone in the room knew exactly what she was referring to.

  "As far as I can tell, Boss, not a damn thing," said Altair Allie. Maxie had sent Allie to keep an eye on the Fat Chance as soon as she'd heard that her plans for Phule's Company were ripening. "There was that one day when all hell broke loose, with the Yakuza guy starting a fight, and the little lizard playing chase through the casino, and the tax collectors and bikers showing up, and then nothing. The Army guys are acting like it's all routine."