No Phule Like an Old Phule

2

Journal #649

The excesses of youth, as amusing as they may seem to those of riper experience, are nonetheless productive of worthwhile results. Youthful exuberance, wedded to the seemingly inexhaustible energies of the young, can achieve things that sober maturity would never attempt. It is undoubtedly for this reason that armies are made up of the young.

The negative corollary of this verity is that; despite almost comically elaborate efforts to arrive at correct intelligence, armies are more easily duped than almost any other institution of similar size and complexity. And the same can be said of their individual members-only more so...

"Here's a package for you from Legion Headquarters, Captain," said Lieutenant Rembrandt, bustling into her commander's office.

"Oh, good-maybe it's the promotion Ambassador Gottesman said I'm supposed to be getting," said Phule. He took the package from her hands and eagerly began to tear it open. "I never thought I'd make it to major," he said.

"I mean, I suppose I always hoped I'd do well in the Legion-maybe even make it to general. It's every officer's dream, I guess. But realistically, if you keep butting heads with the top brass-and I've pretty much made a full-time career of that..." He stopped suddenly, his face a snapshot of disappointment.

"What is it, sir?" said Rembrandt.

"This isn't my promotion," said Phule. "It's a set of environmental impact forms from the Alliance Ecological Interplanetary Observation Union. The AEIOU."

"That's interesting," said Rembrandt. "Have we had any previous dealings with the AEIOU?"

"Sometimes: Why?" Phule asked his lieutenant.

"I just wondered what they wanted," said Rembrandt.

Phule looked at the cover letter. "They want us to document our compliance with ecological preservation directives for undeveloped planets, and to submit our updated environmental preservation plan. There's a list of regulations..."

"Undeveloped?" Rembrandt frowned. "Where do they get that? This is an inhabited world, last I looked. The desert out here may be fairly empty, but that Zenobian capital city you were in is about as developed as it gets."

"That was pretty much my impression:" said Phule, scratching his head. "Somebody's gotten the wrong information."

"That could be a first-class pain," said Rembrandt. "You know these bureaucrats. Once they get the wrong idea, it's as good as gospel. I remember when the newstapers mixed up my Uncle Daryll with another guy who was killed in a skimmer accident. It took him nearly sixteen years to convince the Planetary Employment Bureau he was still alive-and poor Uncle Daryll worked for them..."

"Well, this is obviously irrelevant to a Legion mission," said Phule. "We've never had to file environmental impact forms before..."

"Don't bet anything on it," said Tusk-anini, who'd been sitting in one comer of the office, reading. "Environment all around us, so we having impact every day. Bureaucats' right to worry. I think is smart to fill out forms."

"How about you do it, then," said Phule, handing the pile of papers to the huge Volton legionnaire. "You fill out the paperwork, I'll sign it, and we'll send it back to the AEIOU. That'll get 'em off our back."

"I do it," said Tusk-anini. "When you want back?"

"I don't know-a week or so ought to be enough time," said Phule. "It's your baby, now-you can use the spare desk in the comm center to work on it. Let me know if you run into any problems."

"Will take good care of baby," said Tusk-anini. He tucked the papers under his arm and headed for the comm center.

Rembrandt watched him go, a trace of worry on her face. "Are you sure it's a good idea to give that job to him, Captain?" she said. "He's likely to come up with very strange answers to some of those questions-you know how his mind works. Sometimes I think he's too smart for his own good."

"Oh, I'm not worried about the AEIOU," said Phule.

"You know what happens to paperwork-it just sits on some secretary's desk until they file it and forget it. Odds are nobody will even glance at those forms, except to "make sure we've filled them out and that I've signed them."

"I hope you're right," said Rembrandt. "There are enough people looking for ways to make trouble for-you and for this company-that I'd hate to see somebody else have an excuse to get on your case. It worries me that this came from Legion Headquarters instead of directly from the AEIOU."

"You don't need to worry," said Phule, waving his hand.

"Remember, I'm the guy who handles problems from upstairs. And as long as Colonel Battleax and Ambassador Gottesman are on our side, we've got two people who can keep the trouble from ever getting as far as me. And I've got a pretty good idea how to keep them happy."

"I sure hope so, Captain," said Rembrandt. She let her frown relax. Phule was probably right. Ever since he'd been on board, life with Omega Company had been steadily improving. Who was to say it wouldn't keep getting better and better?

Three men met Victor Phule as he entered the casino offices. Two were dressed in well-tailored civilian garb, the third in a black Space Legion officer's uniform. Only someone familiar with the minutiae of Legion uniforms would have noticed that the various patches and insignia he wore were completely bogus.

"All right, where's my son?" barked Victor Phule, ignoring the proffered handshake. "I've been trying to catch up with him for weeks, and every time I call I either get some actor or a bunch of excuses. I want to see Willard--or talk directly to him, if he's not on the station." The elder of the two men in business suits answered him, in a quiet but urgent voice. "Mr. Phule, I'm Tullie Bascomb, head of gambling operations-at the Fat Chance. I understand your concern. But I think this is a discussion that ought to take place in private," he said.

Phule glared at him, but after seeing the man's expression, he nodded. "All right, then," he said. "This had better be good." The man who'd spoken to him indicated a doorway to one side, through which a comfortably appointed small conference room was visible.

At a nod from his boss, Phule's bodyguard stepped inside, quickly scanned the room, then nodded. "Nothing obvious," he said.

"It's clean," said one of the men who'd greeted Phule.

"Your son made sure of that Come on in, Mr. Phule. Would you like coffee, tea, something else?"

"I'd like to talk to Willred," said Victor Phule. "And I've had about enough of your stalling. Where is he?"

"Off-station," said Bascomb. "And at last word, he was doing just fine. Come sit down, Mr. Phule. I'll give you the full. story. And, if you insist, we can connect you to him, he's close enough so we can use regular intrasystem comm." Phule grumbled, but took a seat Bascomb introduced the others in the room: Gunther Rafael Jr., former owner of the casino, and Doc-a veteran character actor Phule had hired to impersonate a legionnaire-in order to keep the crooked operators who ran Lorelei Station from learning that Omega Company had been transferred to another post, leaving the casino unguarded.

"This isn't for general publication, you understand," said Bascomb. "The captain is off-station because he's decided that his military command takes priority over his other businesses. For the interim, he's left the place in our hands. And I don't mind telling you, Mr. Phule, if the captain walked in here unannounced five minutes from now, I don't think he'd find one thing that isn't being done exactly the way he'd do it himself."

"I'll be the judge of that, thank you," said Victor Phule, displaying no emotion. "From what I've seen so far, the boy hasn't entirely lost his head for business. But the devil is in the details, as you gentlemen know. And I'm going to withhold judgment until I've had a look at your books and your operations."

"Can he do that?" asked Gunther Rafael, turning to Bascomb. He had a perpetually nervous look, as if he expected to be called on the carpet.

"Technically, probably not," said Bascomb. He held up a hand to forestall Phule's protest "But I'd be a damned fool if I didn't let him satisfy himself that the place is on a sound footing. Unless the captain explicitly forbids it, that is. Mr. Phule carries a lot of weight around here, but as far as I'm concerned, the captain carries more. No offense, Mr. Phule-but he's the man who put me in this job."

"I appreciate your loyalty to my son," said Victor Phule.

"But loyalty only goes so far, Bascomb. I've done business with the military long enough to know how much it values loyalty. That's all well and good-but where I disagree with it is when it elevates loyalty over competence. If a man can't do the job, I want another man in that job before the first one costs me more money than his loyalty is worth. Do you understand me?"

"I understand you, Mr. Phule," said Bascomb, with a shrug. "Maybe I wouldn't be so quick to put a price on loyalty, but I agree with you on competence-I don't think I'm flattering myself to say that your son hired me because I've shown a fair bit of competence in the casino business. Now, would it be convenient for you to look over those books after lunch? While you're eating--on the house, of course-we can set up one of the executive offices for you to use."

"Bring me the books now," said Phule, brusquely. "I want to see both sets-the real ones, and the phony ones you use for the tax auditors. And I'll work at the desk my son uses when he's here. I don't expect there's anybody else who needs that particular space."

"I'll need you to excuse me a minute for that," said Bascomb, standing up. "I'll send in a waiter to take your drink order..."

"Forget the waiter," snapped Phule. "Just bring me the books. And it better not be too long."

"It'll take as long as it takes, growled Bascomb. He turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Twenty minutes later Bascomb returned, with a determined expression on his face. Without saying a word, he unlocked a file drawer, removed a pair of memory modules, and handed them to Victor Phule. "These have both sets of books on them," he said. "I guess you'll want to use your own computer, but we can give you one to use if you'd like."

"I'll let you know," said the elder Phule, brusquely. "Now, have that impostor clear off the desk and get out of my way. 1 want to get to work."

"Aw right, smarty, so what's the plan now?" Ernie grumbled. Their unwanted visitors had left, but he'd had to wait until Lola managed to find a tool strong enough to cut the plasteel tape Mr. V's muscle man had used to confine him before he could get out of the chair they~ d put him in. He still had sticky patches on his arms from where the tape had held them. Touching them made him shudder. He didn't even want to think about what might have happened.

She shrugged. "We go back to Lorelei, of course," she said. "That's our only choice."

"And when we get there?" She shrugged again. "I'll figure something out"

"You'll figure something out?" Ernie's voice rose an octave. "You bet you will! You're the one who got us in this whole farkin' mess to begin with!"

"I seem to remember you agreeing to taking the job way back when it was first offered," said Lola. "In fact, you were pretty gung ho about it"

Ernie scoffed. "Yeah, that's before we tried snatching that damn robot, which had us both fooled into thinking it was Phule. Then, when we try to smuggle it off-planet, it manages to steal a lifeboat off a space liner and bail out right in the middle of hyperspace. I don't think I'll ever figure that one out We might as well forget about snatching that punk."

"Great idea," said Lola. "Except that Mr. V and his clients aren't going to let us forget it At least, not until we show them enough of an effort to convince them we're playing the game their way. If there's some way for us to bail out when things get sticky, I'll find it Don't you worry."

Ernie's eyes bulged out. "Don't me Worry?" he growled. "Next time, see how you like sitting there with ten yards of plasteel tape holding you to tile chair, and an ugly guy with a beamer aimed up your nostrils. I've been there, and 1 don't like it worth an unplugged virt."

"Oh, come on," said Lola grinning mischievously.

"You look really cute when you're helpless, you know?"

"Gee, thanks," said Ernie. He thought a moment, frowning, before he continued. "Does this mean..."

"Forget about it," said Lola in a tone that left no room for doubt. "Right now, my main priority is keeping my skin intact Which means getting a ticket on the next space liner headed back to Lorelei."

"That's going to cost us an arm and a leg," grumbled Ernie.

Lola fixed him with an exasperated stare. "And what do you think it'll cost us not to go back?"

"I know, I know," said Ernie. "We've gotta look as if we're gonna try to finish the job. But what if we can't, anyway? We'll be out all that money, and running for our lives, to boot If we're gonna spend the rest of bur lives running, what's the point of blowing all our money right from the git-go? Worse, what's the point of spending it to get someplace where the guys who're trying to do us in are running the show?"

"If they were really running the show on Lorelei, they wouldn't have to bring us in to snatch Phule:" said Lola.

"Hey, they might even have figured out that Phule's got a robot there to impersonate him. That little fact could be worth a nice bundle, all by itself." Ernie frowned again. "Why didn't you think of that when those bastards were getting ready to work me over?"

"It wasn't the right time to play that card," said Lola, calmly. "Those guys didn't come here looking for information, so why should we give it to them? We have to hang on to it until we can trade it for something we want."

"Yeah, huh?" said Ernie. "Next time the big guys have you tied up with plasteel, ready to slice and dice and barbecue, I can guarantee you-you'll have a damn good idea what you want."

"Ernie, Ernie," said Lola, shaking her head. "I got us out of that little fix, didn't I? If we keep obsessing about every little setback, we'll never make any progress toward our long-range goals. You understand that, don't you?"

"My longest-range goal is to keep on breathing," said Ernie. "It ain't such a bad idea to avoid unnecessary pain, either. Come to think of it, there's no such thing as necessary pain, in my book."

"Well, we'll do what we can to avoid pain," said Lola.

"But the best way to ensure that, right about now, is to get ourselves on a starship headed for Lorelei. So give me your credit chip, and I'll get busy on that-and once we're on the way, we'll have plenty of time to work out the next steps."

"All right," said Ernie, reaching for his wallet. "But this better be good."

"Don't worry," said Lola, brightly. "I expect everything to work out perfectly this time." Her smile as she took his credit chip was almost sincere enough to convince him.

Sergeant Mayhem's eyes bulged out in disbelief. He'd been assigned as the Space Legion recruiting officer on Teloon for close to fifteen years ever since he'd managed to pyramid a minor injury sustained during the Stoddard's World police action into a cushy desk job far from any chance of action. Little had he realized just how far he was going to be from the action. In his entire time on Teloon, he'd averaged less than one recruit a year-on a planet with a population pushing the three billion mark!

He still didn't understand how the Legion could afford to keep him here. Probably some clerk had figured out that letting him retire, paying his pension (a hefty sum considering his years in service), giving him passage to a world of his choice, and shipping a replacement out to Teloon would cost the Legion more than keeping him on the rolls. Assuming they were ever going to replace him-given his results over the years, it hardly seemed worth the Legion's while.

But sure enough, here sat one of the planet's natives on the other side of his desk, practically begging to enlist! It took all his will power to keep from drooling at the prospect. "Well, sonny, do you think you have what it takes to be a legionnaire?" he asked. The question blithely skimmed over the fact that all it really took to be a legionnaire was the ability to walk, stumble, or crawl into a recruiting station and do something-almost anything that could reasonably be interpreted as an effort to enlist.

The Legion was far from picky.

"I honestly don't know, sir," said the native. "All I can say is that I've been doing everything I possibly can to prepare myself. I've got excellent grades in school..."

"Good, very good," said Sergeant Mayhem, nodding enthusiastically. He himself had left school as early as the law on his home planet allowed-at roughly age fourteen, if he remembered correctly. It had been a good while back.

His lack of education hadn't hampered his Legion career, as far as he could tell. How smart did a guy have to be to carry a gun and dig ditches?

"And I think I'm in excellent physical condition," the native continued. "I've played three varsity sports and, I've got belts in two different martial... "

"Great," said Mayhem. That made it slightly more likely that the recruit would complete basic Legion training which he needed to do if the recruiting officer was going to get his bonus for bringing in a live one. Mayhem had lost the bonus on about a third of his recruits. He always hated it when that happened. But this one sounded as if he might actually make it through the not-too-rigorous Legion boot camp... as long as he didn't mind being treated like dirt.

"You have any idea what you're getting yourself in for?" he asked, somewhat reluctantly. He certainly didn't want to scare the kid off, but the regulations required him to make it more or less clear that this wasn't going to be any kind of picnic. "The Legion's not for softies, you know," he continued. "If the Alliance winds up in a war, it's the Legion that's going to get sent to fight it. You understand what that means, don't you?"

"I understand, sir, and I'm ready," said the native.

"What do I have to do to join?"

"Read this paper and sign it," said Mayhem. "You'll take a copy home, and think about it for twenty-four hours. If you haven't changed your mind by tomorrow, you're in."

"Yes, sir!" said the native. He practically bounced over the desk to grab the stylus out of Mayhem's hands and quickly put his signature on the enlistment form, then handed the top copy back to the sergeant.

"Zigger," said Mayhem, looking at the form. "Well, you'll want to choose a Legion name before you report for training. You might start thinking about what name you want"

"Oh, I've thought about it a long time;" said Zigger. "I've already made up my mind..."

"Don't tell me," said Mayhem. "Once you join, nobody should know your civilian name. The pay computer will keep your records so everything is in order, but I can tell you for a fact that nobody in the Legion will look into it during your actual term of service. That way, you'll be judged by what you do in the Legion uniform: not what you've done before or who your parents were." The latter was a polite fiction. In fact, a lot of Legion officers were where they were because of who their parents were-and how much they'd been willing to spend to put them in an officer's uniform. But there was no point in telling this kid the hard facts of life. He'd figure them out soon enough, probably at the hand of a snotty Junior officer who'd spent most of his life ordering servants around and considered enlisted legionnaires one more variety of servant. Mayhem didn't particularly care, as long as he'd cashed the recruitment bonus well before the kid learned what a rotten deal he'd signed up for. Whatever happened to the kid after that was the kid's own lookout. Mayhem grinned, just thinking about the bonus, and the kid grinned back. Sucker, thought Mayhem. I wish I had a million more like you. But you'll do. You'll do just fine, for now.

"Hello, sweetie," came Mother's insinuating voice over the intercom in Phule's office. "That cute Ambassador Gottesman is on the line, asking for you."

"Great, put him through," said Phule. He wondered what the Alliance's ambassador was calling about this time. By now, Phule and his Legion company had established themselves as firm favorites with the Diplomatic branch. Their successful peacekeeping mission on Landoor, then their performance in the delicate position of establishing the first Alliance presence in Zenobia, had given State two comparatively easy victories in situations where a good deal had been at stake. But it was too soon for the authorities to be considering a new mission for the Omega Mob. And it was as sure a bet as anything in the galaxy that Gottesman was not spending State's money on an interstellar voice call just to chat up his old friend. Something interesting was undoubtedly on deck.

The light came on, on Phule's desk, then the ambassador's voice came through. "Hello, Captain Jester-I hope all's well out your way," said the ambassador.

"Coming along very smoothly, sir," said Phule. "The Zenobians have pretty much accepted us as the logical go betweens in their attempts to establish relations with the Nanoids. And our talks with the Nanoids have progressed to the point where we can begin to address substantive issues."

"Good, good," said the ambassador. "State's hoping to get a xenological team there to handle these negotiations on a more professional basis, but until one of the two native parties makes a formal request we can't very well stick our nose in. Have you seen any sign that either side is likely to make such a request?"

"Nothing so far, sir," said Phule. "But the Zenobians are still not convinced that the Nanoids aren't off-planet intruders, and to be honest with you we can't prove that, either. We're moving along as best we can, but 1 can't say there's any sign of a major breakthrough yet."

"Well, if you're doing your best, that's likely to be as good a job as anyone can do," said Gottesman. "We'll just have to bide our time. Ghu knows, we're used to that in the diplomatic branch. But here's something you can do for us in the meantime, Captain. 1 understand Zenobia is pretty much an untamed world, out beyond the natives' urban centers."

"I suppose so," said Phule. "Out where we are is certainly wild enough. What do you have in mind, sir?"

The ambassador cleared his throat, and said, "Well, as it happens, we've got a number of civilians who've done the government a few favors over the years, if you know what 1 mean. And it so happens that some of them have gotten the idea that there might be some fairly large game running loose on Zenobia-something on the order of the larger dinosaurs. Am 1 right about that, Captain?"

"Well, there are some fairly large specimens here, if what 1 saw in the zoo back in the capital city is any indication," said Phule. "I can't say I've seen any such in the wild, though-we're out here in the desert, you know, and most of the animals I've seen out here are fairly small although a few of them are pretty nasty. But most of the larger creatures on this world seem to be swamp-dwellers. Anyway, the natives don't really seem to want us trampling through their swamps-I get the idea those are prime recreation areas, from their point of view."

"I see," said the ambassador. "Well, 1 may ask you to talk to some of their people to see if we can get some exceptions made. There are a couple of VIPs who've taken a fancy to do some serious big-game hunting, and they've gotten the notion that some of the beasties there on Zenobia are about as big as they come. Have you heard anything about an animal the natives call a gryff?"

"Not much more than the name," admitted Phule.

"From what the natives say, I'd guess it's a big, slow moving, and rather stupid herbivore. Not very exciting to hunt, I'd imagine."

"Nothing's very exciting to hunt, as far as I'm concerned," said the ambassador. "Much more civilized to play TetraGo in a comfortable chair with a cold drink close to hand. But there's no accounting for tastes. 1 get the impression that if it's big enough, that's all the justification some of these fellows need. How much trouble do you think it'd be to get the Zenobians' permission for a party of off-worlders to come in and bag a few trophies?"

"All can promise is to give it a try." said Phule, dubiously. "Give me a couple of days, and I'll get back to you if 1 can convince them..."

"Great, 1 knew 1 could count on you," said Ambassador Gottesman. "And remember, you can always call on me if you need anything that State can help with. Gotta run..." And he closed the connection.

"Well, the Zenobians aren't going to like this one bit," said Phule, looking across the Office-at Beeker, who'd sat there silently during the call. "I can imagine Chief Potentary Korg's face when 1 run this idea past him."

"Something like this was inevitable, sir," said the butler. "The State Department didn't support you for this assignment out of altruism, you know. It was just a matter of time before the quid pro quo became obvious."

"Well, Gottesman has taken our side against the general more than once;" said Phule. "I can't refuse him something in return. It's only fair."

Beeker sniffed. "There's nothing fair about it," he said. "In fact, it has a distinct odor..."

"So we'll hold our noses and do what we can," said Phule, with a resigned tone. "If the Zenobians say no, that'll be an end to it."

"I doubt it, sir," said Beeker, but Phule wasn't listening.