by RobertAsprin
* * *
The company’s new facility, or The Club, as the Legionnaires took to calling it, was certainly no comedown from the comfort they had enjoyed during their stay at the Plaza. In addition to the already referenced confidence course and firing range, it had its own swimming pool and sauna, a moderate-sized gymnasium, and enough rooms to accommodate a small convention. As it evolved, however, the main gathering point for the Legionnaires was the combination dining hall, meeting room, and cocktail lounge. With its comfortable sofas and fireplaces amid the widely scattered tables, it proved to be ideal for socializing during off-duty hours, which in turn made it the pivotal point for dispensing or collecting information or gossip that wasn’t available through normal channels.
* * *
Phule paused for a moment before seating himself for breakfast, surveying again the bustle of activity in the dining hall. To his eye, it was apparent that there was something afoot this morning. The Legionnaires were huddled together in groups at various tables around the room, their heads close together as they murmured back and forth while poring over something. Occasional snickers erupted, and more than a few speculative glances were directed his way … and there was obvious nudging with elbows as his presence was noted.
That the commander found this conduct puzzling and more than a little curious went without saying. Their general manner was that of school kids sneaking a peek at a frog which had been smuggled into class, all the while wondering what the teacher would do when she discovered its presence. The trouble was, for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what would inspire this behavior in his own motley crew. Finally he gave up trying to speculate and sank into a chair at his butler’s table.
“Good morning, Beeker,” he said absently, still peering around the room. Were it not for his preoccupation, he might have noticed that his butler never glanced up from the Port-A-Brain he was bent over.
“Morning, sir.”
“Tell me, Beek … the troops tell you things they won’t tell me … if it isn’t a breach of confidence, do you have any idea what has everybody wound up this morning?”
“I believe I could make a fairly accurate guess.”
Phule broke off his surveillance and turned his gaze to Beeker, only to find himself studying the top of that notable’s head.
“Well?” he prodded.
The butler tore his eyes from the computer screen to meet his employer’s gaze with ill-concealed amusement.
“I believe it also explains the sizable donation Brandy made to the company fund … the one you found so puzzling.”
“Look, Beek. Are you going to tell me or—”
“I believe it involves this … sir,” Beeker said deadpan as he swiveled the computer screen around to share with the commander.
The screen displayed a page from a magazine, but the reduced size did not affect the impact of the banner headlines superimposed on the picture:
HELL’S BELLES
THE GIRLS OF PHULE’S COMPANY COME IN SMALL, MEDIUM, AND (VERY) LARGE!!
Sprawled across the page, in what might be politely referred to as their “natural splendor,” were the all too recognizable figures of Brandy, Super Gnat, and … Mother!
Beeker watched his employer’s face intently for any sign of surprise or alarm, but Phule’s expression was as noncommittal as it was when reviewing the profit/loss statement of a company he was considering acquiring. The only clue that there was anything abnormal in his reaction was the length of time he spent studying the display, and it would require someone as familiar with his normal patterns as Beeker to spot even that. Phule was usually able to assimilate information and make decisions at a glance, yet in this situation he stared at the screen as if it was a busted flush he could change by willpower alone.
“I could download it and run an enlarged hard copy if you’d like … sir,” the butler said at last, unable to restrain the urge to bait Phule out of his silence.
“I’m well aware of that, Beeker,” was the calm reply as Phule continued to keep his eyes glued to the screen.
“It would be no trouble at all,” Beeker pressed relentlessly. “I’ve already had several requests for just that from your Legionnaires, so one or two copies more or less wouldn’t—”
“Is this local or interstellar?”
“What do you think … sir?”
Phule raised his eyes at last to stare sightlessly at the far wall for several moments before answering.
“I think …”
“Oh! You’ve seen it! Hi, Beeker!”
The butler rose politely to greet the company’s first sergeant.
“Good morning, Brandy. Yes, the captain and I were just discussing it, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? What do you think, sir? Not bad for an old girl, huh?”
“It’s … you look good, Brandy,” Phule managed through a strangely tight smile. “You all do.”
“I think so, too.” The sergeant beamed. “I’ll admit I was a little worried at first, displaying this old heap side by side with the newer models”—she jiggled a little to illustrate her point—“but the proofs turned out great, so I gave it my go-ahead.”
The butler nodded sagely.
“Oh yes. The extra copies you asked for will be ready this afternoon.” He smiled.
“That’s swell! How much will I owe you for those?”
“Nothing. Consider it to be with my—or more accurately, with the captain’s—compliments. After all, it’s his printer I’m using.”
“Hey, thanks, Captain. Well, got to go … my public awaits.”
Phule finally broke his self-imposed silence.
“Ah … Brandy?”
“Yes, sir?”
He started to speak twice before managing to settle his mind on one question.
“How did you get Mother to go along with this?”
“Go along with it? It was her idea! Well … later!”
The two men watched as she strode off to join one of the huddles, waving merrily at the whistles and catcalls that erupted at her approach.
“It was Mother’s idea … sir,” Beeker repeated blandly.
Phule smiled vacantly at the room.
“Jesus wept!” he said, uttering through clenched teeth the closest thing to a profanity that had passed his lips in years. “Do you realize—”
The beeper on his wrist communicator interrupted him in midsentence—the shrill Emergency Page that’s pitched to grate against the nerves of any intelligent being in the known universe. Phule silenced it the only way the circuits would allow, by opening communication.
“Yes, Mother?”
“I really do hate to interrupt you at breakfast, Big Daddy, but there’s a Colonel Battleax on the holo from HQ. She wants to talk to you real bad.”
“On the way,” Phule said, rising from his seat. “Jester out.”
“Like the lady said,” Beeker quipped, “your public awaits!”
* * *
Following the pattern set during their penthouse HQ days, the communications equipment had been installed in a room next to the commander’s office. The new location had not improved the quality of the holo projections received, however, or the content of their messages.
“What kind of a silly-ass stunt is this, Captain?”
The image of Colonel Battleax hovered a few feet above the carpet, though in her vibrant anger it might not have been an error in transmission. The disheveled condition of her uniform, even more than her distraught manner, was an indication that she was transmitting without her usual preliminary preparations.
“Silly-ass stunt?”
“Don’t give me that, Jester! I’m talking about the pictorial on your girls in this god-awful T&A magazine!”
“Oh … that!” Phule said, mentally blessing the marvels of modern magazine distribution. “Yes, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”
“What’s the problem? Don’t you realize what this does to the dignity of the Legion?”
/> “Excuse me, ma’am … dignity? Are we talking about the same Legion?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Jester!”
Years of experience in keeping a calm front in the face of disaster rose to Phule’s assistance.
“I’m not at all sure I do. I believe it was the colonel herself who said in our last conversation that she was tired of reading media reports of my company in barroom brawls. More to the point, it’s my understanding that the Legionnaires were off duty and on their own time for the photo session in question, and Legion regulations clearly limit the extent to which a commander can interfere with his troops during their off-duty hours … Articles 147 to 162, I believe.”
The colonel’s image glowered down on him.
“All right, Jester. If we’re going to play those games, Article 181 specifically forbids Legionnaires from accepting wages, gratuities, or any other form of individual payment for employment or services while enlisted in the Legion—off duty or not!”
“But Article 214 expressly allows Legionnaires to perform work or service on their own hours, providing the proceeds from those labors are paid directly to or forwarded to their assigned company rather than retained as private gain. I can reassure the colonel that the payment for the Legionnaires’ appearance in the magazine in question was duly surrendered to the company fund, as is required by the tenants of that article.”
“I’m familiar with that article as well, Jester,” Battleax shot back, “and I’m somehow not surprised you have it memorized. To my recollection, however, the rest of that article goes on to state that the approval of the company commander is required for such off-duty activity. Are you telling me that you approved this appearance?”
Phule started to cross his fingers behind his back, then recalled the requirement of not lying, or at least not saying anything that might later be proved a lie. With that in mind, he uncrossed his fingers and phrased his answer very carefully.
“Colonel Battleax … ma’am … frankly it’s their bodies. I don’t feel I have the right to order them not to display them, any more than it would be my right to order them to display them.”
The colonel’s image pursed its lips for a moment, then seemed to deflate with a long exhale.
“I see. All right, Captain. You’re off the hook again. I hope you realize, though, exactly how much I’m going to enjoy explaining this here at HQ.”
“I realize that, ma’am,” Phule replied, stoically repressing a smile at the mental image, “and I’d like to say that I and the rest of the company appreciate the colonel’s efforts on our behalf.”
“Well, you can tell that menagerie of yours for me that they can show their appreciation by trying to give me a few less items to explain. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll definitely pass that along.”
“Very well. Battleax out.”
The transmission did not break off immediately, and for a moment Phule thought he saw a grin flash across the colonel’s face as her image vanished.
* * *
Perhaps the most puzzling thing to me has always been that successful people invariably seem surprised by their own success. As a case in point, my employer had taken over the Omega Company with the express idea of building it into an effective unit. He planned to do this by raising the Legionnaires’ self-esteem, and worked ceaselessly toward that goal. When his labor finally began to bear fruit, however, it seemed to take him totally unawares.
Of course, the speed of the company’s development was a bit unnerving. In hindsight, I guess it’s apparent that there is nothing quite as fanatically loyal as a stray that’s found a home. At the time, however, the Legionnaires’ sudden enthusiasm was more than a little unsettling.
* * *
“… and finally, I am pleased to report that the holdings in the company portfolio have increased substantially since my last report. I’ll have a detailed report available for those interested, but cutting through to the bottom line, we’re currently up by eight, which is to say every dollar invested in our fund at the last report is now worth eight.”
A low murmur rippled through the assemblage at this announcement, with some Legionnaires whispering excitedly at what they could do with their increased wealth while others groaned and grumbled over the profits they had lost by pulling all or part of their money out after the last reported increases.
The entire company was gathered for one of Phule’s periodic informal debriefings. Whether it was items too minor to warrant announcement by wrist communicators, but too important to trust to a general notice posted on the bulletin board, or issues he wished to discuss with the Legionnaires face-to-face, the commander felt it was important to keep this line of exchange open, and the company had responded with diligent attendance whenever word was passed of an assembly.
After waiting several moments for the reactions to run their course, he held up a hand for silence.
“All right,” he said. “That pretty much wraps up the old business for now. Are there any questions or comments before I move on to new business?”
“Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Armstrong was on his feet, face rigid, in the classic position of attention. The captain noticed that several of the Legionnaires were grinning and nudging each other, but dismissed it as their normal amusement at Armstrong’s Regular Army practices.
“Yes, Lieutenant? What is it?”
Instead of replying, the lieutenant literally marched to the front of the room, squaring his corners with parade-ground precision. Coming to a halt directly in front of the commander, he drew himself up with a crisp salute, which he held until Phule, puzzled by his antics, returned.
“Sir! The company has asked me to speak for them in voicing a complaint … sir!”
As he spoke, all the Legionnaires in attendance rose silently to their feet and assumed stances approximating Armstrong’s textbook pose.
The commander avoided looking at them directly, but was both aware of and taken aback by their actions. Whatever was coming, it seemed to be unanimous. What the hell could it be?
“At ease, Lieutenant … and the rest of you, too. These are supposed to be informal meetings. Now then, what seems to be the problem?”
“Well, sir … the company is unhappy with the uniforms you’ve provided them with.”
“I see. Which uniform specifically?”
“All of them, sir. We feel they lack color.”
“Color?”
Phule couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the assemblage. To a man, they were grinning at him.
“I don’t think I understand. Black is the designated color of all Space Legion uniforms. While it may be unimaginative, I don’t see any reason to change that, even if we could get approval from Headquarters … which I doubt.”
“We don’t want to change the color of the uniforms, sir … just request permission to add something for accent. Specifically …”
The lieutenant removed something from his pocket and held it out to Phule.
“… we request the captain’s permission to adopt and wear this flash patch as a designation for our unit … sir!”
The patch was a bright red, diamond-shaped piece of cloth. Embroidered on it, in black, was a skull wearing a belled jester’s cap at a jaunty angle.
Phule studied it for a full minute as silence hung thick in the room. Then, still not trusting his voice, he removed the paper from the patch’s adhesive backing and pressed it onto the sleeve of his uniform with his palm. With slow precision, he assumed the position of attention himself and raised his hand to salute the company.
As one, the Legionnaires returned his salute … then the room exploded in cheers and celebration.
“How do you like it, Captain?”
“Lieutenant Rembrandt did the art! Isn’t it a beaut?”
“We all chipped in …”
As they crowded around him, the Legionnaires took time from babbling and slapping each other on the back to assist each other
in installing the new patches on their sleeves. From the speed with which the decorations materialized, it was clear to the commander that the patches had been distributed in advance, with everyone carefully keeping them out of sight until they could spring the surprise on him together.
* * *
Phule was sitting alone in his room, staring at the patch on his just removed uniform, when his butler let himself in.
“Have you seen this, Beeker?”
“Yes, sir. If you’ll look at your closet, you’ll find that it has been added to all your uniforms.”
“So you were in on it, too, eh?”
“I was asked to keep it confidential, sir. They wanted it to be a surprise.”
The commander shook his head in amazement.
“It certainly was. I never dreamed they were cooking up anything like this.”
“I think you should take it as a compliment. It’s my impression that they wish to show their appreciation for your efforts on their behalf, as well as pledging their support.”
“I know. It’s just … I didn’t know what to say, Beek. Still don’t, for that matter. I had to sneak out of the party early before I made a fool of myself trying to find a way to say thanks.”
“I believe your own acceptance of the patch is sufficient, sir. Rather like a father showing appreciation for his children by hanging their artistic efforts on the wall of his office.”
Phule shook his head again, more emphatically this time.
“It goes way beyond that. Even my best-case scenario didn’t cover how fast the crew is coming together. I’ll tell you, Beeker, I couldn’t be more proud of them if they were my own kids.”
“Well, sir, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. How did they take the announcement that the Regular Army is arriving tomorrow?”
“I never made it.” The commander sighed, sagging slightly in his chair. “They sprang this on me before I got around to it, and I couldn’t bring myself to change the mood once they got rolling. I decided to let them celebrate tonight … tomorrow will come soon enough.”
* * *
It might be of interesting historical note to some that use of the expression “hookers” as a designation for prostitutes originated during the Old Earth American Civil War. At that time, General Hooker maintained an entourage of “soiled doves” who accompanied him on his campaigns. If anyone visiting his encampment happened to ask one of the soldiers who these “ladies” were, they were simply informed, “They’re Hooker’s,” and the phrase took root.