Phule's Errand

Blitzkrieg’s adjutant. Time to do it again. She stood up, carried her empty tray over to the window where dirty dishes were deposited, and turned to head out to the parade ground. If luck was on her side, somewhere out there she’d find trouble.

“Good morning, Major,” said a voice behind her. She turned automatically to see who’d spoken. It was a youngish woman with lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders of her Legion jumpsuit, wearing a broad smile on her face.

Lieutenant Rembrandt, Sparrowhawk recalled. Nominally second-in- command of Omega Company-to the extent that means anything at all. But why was she smiling? Most of the time, on General Blitzkrieg’s inspection tours, every member of the general’s party was considered an enemy… with excellent reason. Was Rembrandt so naive that she didn’t that know Sparrowhawk’s job entailed finding out whatever dirt she could, to report back to the general? Or did she have some ulterior motive-possibly orders from her CO to keep an eye on the visiting officers? It didn’t really matter. Quite possibly this fresh-faced junior officer would lead her to exactly the kind of dirt she was looking for.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Sparrowhawk, conjuring up a smile of her own. “I’m headed for an after- breakfast walk. Would you have time to join me?” She made a point of phrasing it in such a way that the lieutenant could interpret it either as an order or a friendly invitation.

Rembrandt’s smile grew even broader. “Why, I’d be glad to make the time, Major. The very least I can do is show you where things are so you won’t feel lost on this unfamiliar base.”

Right, thought Sparrowhawk. That clinched it; Captain Jester must have detailed his lieutenant to shepherd the general’s adjutant and steer her away from whatever Omega Company was trying to hide. Well, Sparrowhawk had gotten the runaround more than once before. In fact, she considered it a useful time-saver. Once she’d figured out what parts of the base Rembrandt was trying to keep her from seeing, she’d have a short list of all the major trouble spots to look at on her own. Better yet, the guided tour would take her to all the really interesting spots in camp, so she could actually enjoy it while she was making her little list. “Lead on, Lieutenant,” she said, with a predatory smile. This was going to be far too easy…

Rembrandt brightened up. “Oh, great! Captain Jester’s done some really neat things here, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing them, Major. Although you’ve probably seen every base in the Alliance…” The two of them headed down an outside corridor toward the main exit from the giant prefabricated building that was the central structure of Zeno-bia Base.

“Oh, I’m not quite that ancient,” said Sparrowhawk, with a conspiratorial wink. “And why don’t we just let our hair down and forget about rank, OK? My Legion name’s Sparrowhawk… and can I call you Rembrandt?”

“Sure, Maj- Sparrowhawk,” said Rembrandt. She smiled and held open a door leading out to the parade ground. Like a lamb to the slaughter, thought Sparrowhawk, stepping out into the sunlight.

She didn’t stop to reflect that the phrase might equally apply both ways…

Skilletville was filled wall to wall with people, apparently about fifty tourists for every local-and a fair number of the locals were “Injun” robots. Among the tourists, most of the men were wearing clearly freshly bought “Western” outfits: broad-brimmed hats, unbuttoned vests, blue jeans, boots with fancy toolwork, and some kind of gun belt. The women’s outfits showed more variety, from a feminized version of the hat-jeans-and-boots ensemble to full skirts, parasols, high necklines, and somewhat less practical hats. Most of them looked extremely uncomfortable. On the other hand, Phule’s Legion jumpsuit got more than its share of curious glances-which might have made him even more uncomfortable, if he’d been prone to second-guessing himself.

Along all the unpaved streets were rows of tents selling food, crafts, vids, and “collectibles,” the latter being junky impulse items so outrageously overpriced that the buyers would probably hold on to them forever in the vain hope of someday getting back what they’d paid. Phule stopped to grab a sandwich and a bottle of the local beer at one stand, and scanned the crowd while he gulped them down. No sign of Beeker or Nightingale. He put his sandwich wrapper and empty bottle into a recycler. Some sort of show was going on near the center of town; he made his way through the thickening crowd toward the sound of music and laughter.

A small wooden stage had been erected in the middle of the street, where a group of musicians-half of them human, the other half robots-were playing banjos, fiddles, and a washboard. A grinning sheriff and a buxom music hall girl performed a lively dance to the music. Phule watched for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever the rest of the crowd saw in the act, it did nothing for him. He went back to searching the crowd for the familiar face of his butler-or the slightly less familiar one of Nightingale. After a few minutes, he realized that he’d just seen another familiar face-one he’d met only a few days ago. He turned his head back, reexamining the crowd… Yes, there it was, just on the other side of the stage. Buck Short.

Once again, he began pushing his way through the crowd, this time toward the grizzled cowboy who’d sent him looking for Beeker out in Indian territory. He got several annoyed glances from tourists intent on watching the show, and a couple of elbows came his way, but before long he was right behind his target. “Hello, Buck,” he said calmly, putting his hand on the cowboy’s shoulder.

Buck spun around surprisingly quickly in the tight-packed crowd. “Why, Cap’n!” he said. “What brings you by Skilletville?”

“Still looking for my butler,” said Phule. “The West Indians suggested they might have come here.”

“Wa-al, I reckon that could be,” said Buck. “Dunno why I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Yes, I wondered about that myself, once I learned that this is apparently the main tourist destination on the planet,” said Phule. He paused, looking directly into Short’s eyes. “By any chance did somebody tell you to send me out of the way, so I wouldn’t see them?”

“That don’t hardly make sense, Cap’n,” said Short, his eyes shifting from side to side. “Say, how’s about you and me go somewheres, maybe have a drink and figger it out?”

“I’m not buying you any more drinks,” said Phule. “But we are definitely going to figure things out.” He grabbed the cowboy by the collar and began pulling him along toward the edge of the crowd. The onlookers stared and pointed but did nothing, probably assuming that Buck’s squirming was part of the show. Just what they thought Phule, in a custom-tailored modern Space Legion uniform, was doing in a Wild West re-creation show is probably best left unexplored.

Eventually Phule emerged from the crowd, with Buck still in tow. He dragged him over to a horse trough and sat him on the edge. “All right, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to give me answers. If I don’t think you’re giving me the right answers, you get a bath-which maybe isn’t a bad idea, after all.”

“Hey, pardner, ain’t no need to get all hasty,” said Buck. SPLASH! Phule ducked him into the trough before he could say any more, held him down for a count of five, then pulled him back up, sputtering. The cowboy finally recovered his breath enough to ask, “What’d you go an‘ do that fer?”

“To make sure you know I’m serious,” said Phule, grinning fiercely. “Have you seen my butler?”

“Wa-al, I can’t rightly remem-” SPLASH!

“I’ll ask the question again,” said Phule, pulling him back up-this time after a count of ten. “Have you seen my butler?”

“Yep, I shore have,” said Buck. “Him and his lady was here last night, enjoyin‘ the roundup. Don’t duck me agin!”

“I won’t, if you tell me where they are now,” said Phule.

Buck Short waved a soggy arm in the direction of the Cut ‘N’ Shoot spaceport. “They went that-a-way,” he said. Phule nodded, then let go of his shirt. Buck nearly fell back in the water. But Phule was paying no attention. He was already heading for his robosteed, ready to ride off in pursuit of Beeker.

General Blitzkrieg stepped out onto the parade ground of Omega Base, his best professional scowl on his face. He’d been here less than one standard day, but already he was feeling frustrated. He was used to arriving for “surprise” inspections only to discover that every legionnaire on the planet had known far in advance of his visit, and had prepared for it. He was even used to having the local COs whirl him through a round of wining and dining and VIP receptions in hopes of distracting him from the object of his visit. He couldn’t pretend he minded the special treatment one bit; as far as he was concerned, it was one of the more attractive perks of being a commanding general in the Space Legion.

Besides, he could afford to enjoy himself a little on these inspection tours. The local commanders might