Phule's Errand

The ranking officer here was a lieutenant, who was at least managing a decent salute. Blitzkrieg hadn’t bothered to look up the names of Omega Company’s junior officers. The simple fact that they were here meant that they were screwups, and that was all he needed to know about them. He hated screwups-they made the Legion look bad, and that made him look bad. He wouldn’t stand for that.

He stood scowling for a long moment before returning the lieutenant’s salute. “As you were, Lieutenant,” he grumbled. Then, leaning forward, he hissed, “Where’s that idiot Jester? And don’t tell me he didn’t know I was coming-even he isn’t that dumb. Where is he?”

The lieutenant-Blitzkrieg could now see his name tag, which read Armstrong-had almost imperceptibly relaxed from his rigid stance for a moment, but now was standing at attention again. “General Blitzkrieg, sir!” the lieutenant said. “With Captain Jester’s apologies, sir! The captain detailed me to greet you so that he could attend to urgent company business. He…”

“Oh, shut the hell up!” barked the general. He waved a hand and stepped past Armstrong, glaring around at the miserable hellhole of a desert world that he’d sent Omega Company to. “If I want any of Jester’s bullshit, I can get it directly from the horse’s ass.” Despite himself, the general chuckled. That was one of his better lines; he’d have to remember it for future use.

“Yes, sir, sir!” said Armstrong, frozen in position.

“That’s more like it, Lieutenant,” said Blitzkrieg. He made the rank sound like an epithet. “Now, I’ve had all the nonsense I can“stomach for one day. Take me to wherever Jester’s hiding-on the double!”

“Yes, sir,” said Armstrong, again, saluting. “If the general would be so kind as to follow me…”

“No need for that, Mr. Armstrong,” came a familiar jaunty voice. “Welcome to our humble establishment, General Blitzkrieg-I hope your flight in wasn’t too boring.”

“Captain!” said Armstrong, whirling around. His voice and his expression conveyed an unmistakable sense of relief.

“Jester!” snarled General Blitzkrieg, his face settling into a long-accustomed frown. If Armstrong was relieved, the effect on the general was the complete opposite. Here at last was the man he’d traveled halfway across the Alliance to wreak his vengeance on-and the very sound of his voice was enough to set Blitzkrieg’s blood pressure soaring.

Sure enough, there stood Willard Phule-or, to use his proper Legion name, Captain Jester, grinning as if he’d just seen his best old friend, instead of the commanding general who’d never made much secret of his desire to crush Phule and all he stood for. To Blitzkrieg’s utter astonishment, the fellow was out of uniform. Instead of the Legion’s standard-issue black jumpsuit, the commander of Omega Company was wearing a summerweight tuxedo, with a sparkling white jacket and an impertinent bow tie with matching cummerbund, in an eye-assaulting pattern of unmilitary colors. In his hand was a half-empty martini glass.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, extending his right hand. “How about you join me for a drink while one of the fellows takes your luggage to your quarters?”

General Blitzkrieg’s mouth fell open, but not a word emerged. It was with considerable astonishment that he realized that he’d actually taken Captain Jester’s hand and begun to shake it. A moment after that, the captain had put a friendly arm around his shoulders and begun to steer him in the direction of the sleekly contoured building that must house the Legion base here on Zenobia. And the whole time, Jester kept up a line of small talk, just as if he was about to plop a contract in front of him and sell him an insurance policy.

Somewhere in the back of Blitzkrieg’s mind there rested the thought that he’d come here to ream out Jester like no Legion officer had ever been reamed out in the history of the service.

But he had to admit, right now a drink sounded like just the thing he needed… There’d be plenty of time for reaming afterward.

“De Mon” turned out to be a giant dark-skinned man with a shaved head and eyes that seemed to look right through you. Rita ushered Phule into the circle of men, women, and robots sitting around him near a campfire. Like Rita, both sexes in this village dressed in colorful, flowing robes, and wore their hair in long braids. A distinctive odor of smoldering vegetation filled the air. The group broke into excited whispers as Phule came into view but fell silent as de Mon raised his hand.

“Who dis come to see de Mon?” he asked in a penetrating voice-surprisingly, a clear melodic tenor instead of the basso profundo Phule would have expected from someone of his bulk.

Rita had already told Phule to let her do the talking. “Dis be Captain Jester, from de Space Legion,” she said. “He lookin‘ for some frens. Somebody tell he dey be wit’ de Indians, so he come looking. I an‘ I fetch he here.”

De Mon turned to Phule. “You frens-what dey look like?”

Phule said, “I wish they were easier to describe. One’s an older man, very dignified-looking-he’s actually my butler, but I doubt he’d be wearing his usual outfit for a vacation. The other’s a woman-younger, maybe thirty? Thin, dark-skinned, short hair, usually very serious. I don’t know what she’s wearing now, but the last time I saw her, she was in Legion uniform-a black jumpsuit like this one. Needless to say, there’d be a reward for anyone who can help me find them.“

Several of de Mon’s circle frowned. “What he say?” murmured one of the robots. “He talk so funny…”

De Mon glared at his companions until they fell silent, then nodded, and said, “Huh.” He fixed Phule with his piercing gaze. Phule looked back, frankly, for a long moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, de Mon turned to the others around him. “Anybody see dose people?”

“Sure, dey been to de tourist trap day ‘fore yestaday,” said one woman, who wore huge golden earrings and at least a dozen bangles on her wrists. “De woman buyin’ lots o‘ books, some jewelry-lots o’ pretty stuff. Her mon, he jes look and shake he head.”

“Do you know where they went next?” asked Phule. “I’m very anxious to find them.”

“Dat your money dey be spendin‘?” asked de Mon, with a sly grin. Then he held up a hand and said to the woman who’d spoken before, “You see dem leave?”

“Dey go to de food court,” said the woman. “I don’t know where dey go after, but dey talkin‘ bout de roundup. I bet dey done gone dere.”

“Dat makes sense,” said de Mon, nodding. “All de tourist, dey wants to see de roundup. Dat’s why dey run it six time ev’ry year.”

“Where would they go to see the roundup?” asked Phule, eagerly. Maybe he was finally making progress. It seemed as if he’d walked or ridden over half the planet to learn this much about his fugitive butler.

“De main place is de Pretty Good Corral in Skilletville-dey bring in de robocows down de streets, whoopin‘ and hollerin’, folk shootin‘ off de guns. It ’spose to be a stirrin‘ sight,“ said de Mon. ”You go dere, mos’ like you finds dese people you look for.“

“Thank you,” said Phule. “If someone will tell me how to get there, I’ll be greatly in your debt.”

“You come’t‘rough with de reward, dat take care of de debt mighty quick,” said de Mon, dryly. “Bes’ way to go, you ride east till you past de hills, den swing sout’ to de big river…”

Half an hour later, Phule was on his way. The weather was clear and warm, and his robosteed made good time along the well-marked trail. He met nobody on the way, although perhaps three or four times he saw the dust cloud raised by some distant rider, and once he spotted a stagecoach on a road parallel to his trail.

As the West Indians had predicted, he was in Skilletville well before dark. And while all the hotels and rooming houses were full of tourists, he applied his Dilithium Express card to the problem and soon had an acceptable, if not really luxurious, room. He dumped his luggage on the bed, splashed some water on his face to wash off the trail dust, and went out looking for Beeker.

Major Sparrowhawk took one long last sip of her coffee- the best she’d ever had in a Legion mess hall, and that included the Staff Officer’s mess at Headquarters. And the selection of pastries, and the butter and jam, were of a quality unheard of in most of the restaurants she was in the habit of frequenting. The story that had made the rounds back at Headquarters, about Jester’s having brought in a cordon bleu chef to feed Omega Company (and himself, of course), was beginning to seem credible now that she’d had breakfast in their mess.

It was sorely tempting to fill the cup up one more time and have just one more croissant. But no-the general expected her to spy for him, while he went out and socialized with the officers and enjoyed whatever amenities the base had to offer. She’d been through the routine dozens of times over the years since her assignment as