Phule's Company

by RobertAsprin

  “Wait a minute. Let’s get back to something you said a second ago, about the hotel staff alerting the media that you had arrived. Why did you give the reporter your real name instead of your Legion name?”

  “She already had it …”

  “She?”

  “That’s right. The reporter was a woman … a rather attractive one at that. Of course, I didn’t make any attempt to point that out or take advantage of it during the interview.”

  “Hmmm … That may have been the problem.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Nothing. Go on with your story, Captain. I’m starting to see what happened, though. About your name?”

  “Well, she was looking for me by name. This is actually a fairly common occurrence for me, Colonel. The media often has spotters in hotels to be on the lookout for celebrities, and like it or not, my family name is one which tends to draw media attention, even if it’s just the gossip columns.”

  “And why did you give your name to the hotel?”

  “It was on my credit card, ma’am. The banking community is very conservative and will not issue credit cards for nicknames or aliases, and while the colonel knows I am financially well off, I rarely carry sufficient cash to register an entire company of Legionnaires at a good hotel. If I might point out, ma’am, while the Legion encourages and utilizes aliases, I’m not aware of any regulation which requires their use or forbids Legionnaires from using their given names.”

  “Hmmm … An interesting point, Captain. Let’s take a step back for a moment from your failure to use your Legion name and focus instead on this hotel thing. Why have you moved your company into a luxury hotel?”

  “Again, Colonel, I’m not aware of any regulation forbidding a company commander to house his Legionnaires wherever he wishes, especially if he absorbs the expense personally.”

  “I’m not questioning whether or not you had the right to do it,” Battleax put in. “I’m asking why you did it.”

  Phule glanced at the hand com unit again.

  “I believe it’s covered here in the article, ma’am. Our barracks are being remodeled, giving rise to the need for temporary housing for the company.”

  “So that part of the article is correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you aware, Captain, that we lease those barracks and the land they’re on from a local developer? If so, are you aware that we need the permission of the leaseholder before instituting any renovation or improvements to his property?”

  “I am, ma’am. The fact is, Colonel, I purchased the buildings and land currently leased to the Legion from the local owner. As such, permissions to remodel are not a problem. For the record, however, I hasten to assure the colonel that I have no intention of raising the price should the Legion’s contract here last long enough to require renewing that lease.”

  “That’s decent of you,” the colonel said wryly. “This is all very interesting, Captain. Just between you and me, though, what do you plan to do with your new holding when and if we pull out of there?”

  “Normally I’d hire someone locally to manage the property for me,” Phule explained. “In this particular instance, however, there is already interest—in fact, a firm offer—to purchase the remodeled facility from me whenever I wish to dispose of it. It seems someone saw the architect’s sketches and feels it would make an excellent country club.”

  “This purchase would, of course, result in a profit for you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Getting back to the article, Captain, perhaps you’d care to explain why it was necessary to move the company into the best hotel on the planet for their temporary housing? And while you’re at it, how do you justify calling that outfit of yours an elite force?”

  “That was another assumption on the reporter’s part. I simply said I was here on ‘a special assignment,’ and she jumped to her own conclusions. As to the quality of our temporary housing … may I speak candidly, Colonel?”

  “Please do. If you can clarify the situation without prolonging this rather expensive conversation, it would be appreciated … though from the sound of things, I should have called collect.”

  “The remodeling of our quarters, the luxury hotel for temporary housing, and some of the other things you will doubtless be hearing about in the future are all a part of my plan to turn this company around. You see, these people have been treated like losers and been told they’re losers for so long they have little choice but to believe that they’re losers, and they act accordingly. What I’m doing is treating them like they’re the best, like top athletes being groomed for a competition. I’m betting that they’ll respond by acting like winners because they’ll see themselves as winners.”

  “The theory being that if they don’t look like soldiers and act like soldiers, how can we expect them to fight like soldiers? You’re betting quite a bit on a theory, Captain.”

  “I think it’s a good risk,” Phule said firmly. “And if it isn’t … well, it’s my money to risk, isn’t it?”

  “True enough.” Colonel Battleax pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Very well, Captain. I’ll give you your head on this one for a while. If your idea works, the Legion will benefit. If not, we’re no worse off than when we started. Of course, now that your real name is known, if you foul up like you did on your last assignment, it’ll be hard for you to disappear from sight.”

  “Of course.”

  “What I’m trying to say, Captain Jester, is I’m hoping you’re aware that you’re more vulnerable on this than the Legion is.”

  There was genuine concern in the colonel’s voice, which warmed Phule despite his early morning haziness.

  “Of course,” he repeated. “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Very well. I’ll try to cover the ruckus at this end. You focus on shaping up those troops of yours. I have a hunch it’s going to take all the time and concentration you can give it and then some. In the future, however, try to give me advance warning if the media is going to pounce on something you or your crew is doing. You’re not the only one who doesn’t like early morning surprises.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Oh, and Captain …”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “The remodeling of your barracks. How long do you think that will take?”

  “The estimate is two weeks, ma’am.”

  A triumphant smile flashed across the colonel’s face.

  “I thought so. It might interest you to know, Captain, that that’s the estimate my sister was given when she wanted a new porch put on her house. Battleax out!”

  Phule waited until the projected image faded completely before heaving a big sigh of relief.

  “That went better than I would have hoped,” he declared.

  “Yes, sir,” Beeker responded. “I notice you neglected to tell the colonel that you not only purchased the barracks and land but also the construction company that’s doing the remodeling.”

  “It didn’t seem the right time, somehow.” The commander winked. “Incidentally, remind me to get a clerk or something assigned to monitor the communications gear in here. You shouldn’t have to do that on top of the rest of your duties.”

  “Very good, sir … and thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary, Beek. I just don’t want to give you any more ammo than is necessary when it comes time to negotiate your next raise.”

  Phule stretched and looked out the window.

  “So … what’s on the docket for today?”

  “Quite a bit, sir … but as you pointed out when I wakened you, it’s still early.”

  “Well, I’m up now. Let’s get to work. And give the officers and cadre a call—especially Chocolate Harry. No sense in letting them lounge abed when I’m working.”

  Chapter Six

  Journal File #024

  I will not attempt to capture the true feeling of what it was like for the company to stand guard
duty in a swamp, though my employer’s impressions of the duty the first day he joined them in that task would doubtless be of interest to some. This is not so much a lack of willingness or ability on my part to impart such details, but rather a simple lack of data, as I never actually accompanied the company into the swamp—a fact I became particularly appreciative of when I observed the condition of their uniforms at the end of the day.

  * * *

  Bombest had nearly resigned himself to the Legionnaires’ presence in his hotel. There was no denying the welcome influx of rental monies during a normally slack period, and the troops themselves had proved to be far less raucous and destructive than he originally feared. He even made an honest effort to muster a certain amount of enthusiasm in his mind for their residence. What progress he had made along those lines, however, faded rapidly as he observed the Legionnaires’ transports pull up to the front door late in the afternoon, disgorging what could only be described as “mud men” onto the sidewalk.

  From the waist—or, in some cases, the armpits—up, they were recognizable as the hotel’s latest guests. From the “disaster line” down, however, any familiar detail of individual or uniform was lost in a coating of gray-green muck. As sticky as it looked, Bombest noted that the coating seemed to lack sufficient adhesion to fully remain on its hosts, disturbing quantities of it falling in flakes and globs onto the sidewalk and, with apparent inevitability, the lobby carpet.

  “Hold it right there!”

  The voice of the Legionnaires’ commander, or, as Bombest tended to think of him, the Leader of the Pack, cracked like a whip, bringing the mud-encrusted figures to a complete, if puzzled, halt on the lobby’s threshold.

  The hotel manager watched with some astonishment as Phule, his uniform displaying the same dubious collection of swamp mire as his followers, squeezed through the front ranks and advanced on the registration desk with the cautious tread of one trying to ease over a mine field.

  “Good afternoon, Bombest,” the commander said pleasantly upon reaching his destination. “Could you call housekeeping for me and see if they have … Never mind. These will do nicely.”

  So saying, he scooped up two of the stacks of the day’s newspapers from the desk, the hard copies still preferred by many, piling them on top of each other, then slipping an arm under them as he fished some bills from the relatively clean shirt pocket of his uniform.

  “Here … this should cover it. Oh, and Bombest?”

  “Yes, Mr. Phule?” the manager responded absently as he tried to figure out how to count the money without soiling his hands. Delegation seemed the only answer.

  “Do you know if everything’s set up in the main ballroom?”

  “In a way, sir. Yes. One of your sergeants thought it best if we erected the divider to allow some privacy between the men and women, and it was necessary to open one of the adjoining meeting rooms for additional space—”

  “Yes, yes,” Phule interrupted. “But they’re set to go?”

  “Yes, sir. If you wish, I’ll inform them you’ve arrived.”

  “No need, Bombest. Thanks, anyway,” the commander said as he began to retrace his steps toward the door.

  “Okay! Listen up!”

  The waiting Legionnaires lapsed into silence.

  “I want the troops on point to take these papers and spread them out on the carpet between the door and the elevators. The rest of you move slow and stay on the path as much as possible. Any extra papers are to be left by the elevators, and I want you to grab a handful to spread ahead of you as you hit your floors. Let’s try to keep the mess to a minimum until we get cleaned up. Understand?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “What’s wrong with room service?”

  The catcall from the rear was greeted with laughter and a few scattered rude replies until Phule waved the company into silence once more.

  “Let me answer that question once and for all,” he announced. “While we’re guests at this hotel, there is a housekeeping service as well as a laundry service at our disposal. I have also contracted similar services for us once we move into our new barracks.”

  A wave of enthusiastic cheers was cut short with another gesture.

  “However, I remind you that this is a privilege, and it is not to be abused. If it comes to my attention that the personnel of these services are being forced to deal with any unnecessary unpleasantness or are putting in extra hours due to any laziness or inconsideration of anyone under my command, several things will happen. First, they will be paid a bonus commensurate to the work required. Second, the bonus will be deducted from your paychecks rather than included in the normal expenses I am covering personally. Finally, those services will be canceled and their work distributed among the company as additional duty until such time as I am convinced that you appreciate their efforts sufficiently to conduct yourselves with the appropriate courtesy and consideration. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “All right! I want you all to get upstairs and clean up, then report to the main ballroom for—”

  A new eruption of catcalls interrupted the commander, though it was apparent that he was not the focus. Breaking off his briefing, he turned to see what had captured the company’s attention.

  “Hoooo-eeee!”

  “Ain’t that purdy?”

  “Look out, girls!”

  “How ’bout a kiss, Slick?”

  Chocolate Harry stood framed in the hotel door, though “stood” scarcely embraced the picture he presented. He was ramrod straight, despite his inflated-pear stature, and wore the smug smile of a rich baron surveying his peasants. The obvious reason for his self-pleasure, and the target of the catcalls, was his uniform.

  In place of his normal faded and frayed uniform, Harry glowed in a velveteen jumpsuit of the purest midnight black. The change from his usual rough-and-tumble look was stunning, and the contrast between him and his mud-caked admirers made him look like he just stepped off a recruiting poster. Calf-high boots of what looked to be the supplest suede with low, broad heels added to his height as he drew himself up and fired a parade-ground salute at his company commander.

  “Ready in the main ballroom, sir!”

  Any annoyance Phule might have felt over his supply sergeant upstaging his announcement was quickly crowded aside by his amusement at Harry’s obvious pleasure with the uniform. It was clear that the sergeant had been unable to resist the temptation to show off his new outfit, and had seized on the excuse of reporting in to parade it in front of the rest of the company. Stifling his smile, Phule returned the salute.

  “Thank you, C.H. We’ll be along momentarily. Tell everyone to stand by.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Again the flashy salute, which the commander was obliged to return before turning back to the company.

  “As I was saying, once you’re cleaned up, report to the main ballroom. As you may have noticed, your new uniforms have arrived today, and there are tailors waiting for your final fittings. Carry on.”

  His final words were nearly drowned out by a loud whoop of enthusiasm as the Legionnaires surged forward into the hotel, barely remembering their commander’s order regarding the newspapers.

  Following in their wake, Phule saw Chocolate Harry surrounded by a knot of Legionnaires admiring his uniform while waiting their turn at the elevators.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The supply sergeant broke away from his admirers and hurried to Phule’s side.

  “Relax, C.H. The uniform looks great on you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I mean … it do, don’t it?”

  Harry craned his neck around, trying to catch a reflection of himself in one of the lobby mirrors.

  “I was under the impression that uniform was designed with sleeves, though.”

  “That’s the way it come out of the box,” the sergeant acknowledged, “but I had a few words with the man in charge and convinced him they could come
off. I like it better this way—easier to move in.”

  He swung his arms back and forth, then flexed his substantial biceps as if to prove his point.

  “I see what you mean, C.H. Maybe I’ll try that with a couple of my uniforms.”

  Phule suppressed the visions flashing in his mind of the confrontation between Harry and the uniform’s designer.

  “Do that, Cap’n. It works great. Whoop! Got to go now. It’s gonna be real busy in there for a while.”

  “Good. Carry on, Sergeant.”

  The commander watched him go, then tiptoed over to the front desk with the exaggerated care of a villain in melodrama.

  “Excuse me, Bombest?”

  “Yes, Mr. Phule?”

  “There’ll be a Charlie Daniels coming by in a bit looking for me. If he stops by the desk, just have him come right up to my penthouse. I’d appreciate it.”

  “Certainly, s—ah, would that by any chance be Charles Hamilton Daniels III?”

  “That’s the one. Send him up when he shows.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  The wiry figure in the penthouse door nodded in response to Beeker’s inquiry.

  “Yes, sir. Here to see Captain Jester.”

  The butler hesitated only a fraction of a moment before stepping aside to admit the caller.

  “Nice layout you got here,” the caller said, peering about as he ambled into the salon portion of the penthouse. “Roomy, too.”

  “Actually it’s more room than I need … or am really comfortable with,” Phule responded as he emerged from the bedroom, still toweling his hair from the shower. “I only rented it because we needed the space for our temporary headquarters.”

  He gestured toward the tangle of communications gear at the far end of the suite where a Legionnaire sat idly sharpening a spring stiletto while minding the apparatus.