Phule's Errand

“Let’s go there and see what we find.”

They shouldered their duffel bags and made their way along the trash-lined corridor. They dodged around a puddle of dirty water left by a leaking pipe in the ceiling, and rounded a corner to find themselves in front of an old-fashioned self-service newsstand. “Hold on,” said Sushi. “I want to check out the news.”

“What?” Do-Wop slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “These machines are so old, they prob’ly don’t even work.”

“You’re the one who said we had a whole planet to look for him on,” said Sushi, stepping up to one of the coin-operated monitors. “And these machines ought to work-I doubt anybody’d leave them here if they weren’t bringing in enough to pay the rent on the space. Besides, do you want to spend a couple of weeks hunting all over the planet when a couple minutes research could’ve told us he’s sitting in jail somewhere?”

“Nah-no farkin‘ way Cap’n Jester’s in jail,” sneered Do-Wop. “He’d buy his way out before they got the door half-closed behind him.”

“Maybe,” said Sushi. “But he might still be in the news. So I’m still going to see if he’s gotten himself noticed. You can check out the ball scores, or the numbers, while you’re waiting.”

Do-Wop scoffed. “What, and pay a couple bucks to log on? I’ll just look on your monitor when you’re finished playing.”

“Yeah, right,” said Sushi. He turned and faced his partner, clenched fists resting on his hips. “I’m researching local conditions so we can do our job more efficiently, and you call it playing. And then, on my cred, I’m supposed to let you check on how your lamebrain bets came out? Not a chance!”

“Now, boys, it’s hardly worth getting upset over,” said a quiet voice. “In fact, you can both log on and I’ll pay for it,” it continued.

At the unexpected words, Sushi stood up and looked around. “All right, who said that?”

For his part, Do-Wop shrugged. “Hey, long as he’s springin‘ for the time, who cares?” he said. Grinning, he walked over to one of the news monitors and began keying in his preferences.

“Wait a second,” said Sushi, touching his partner on the shoulder. “It could be some kind of trick…”

“Trick? What’s a trick?” said the voice. “All I do is offer to give you boys a little free time on the newsnet so you don’t spend the next ten minutes ruining my peace and quiet with your arguing, and that starts you off on another argument. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I made a mistake.”

“Uh, sorry, we didn’t mean to insult you,” said Sushi, looking around to see who was talking. “But, excuse me- it might be a bit easier if we could see you… I mean, no offense intended, but I like I know who I’m talking to.”

“See me? Why, I’m right here in front of you,” said the voice. As Sushi and Do-Wop watched, one of the line of antiquated newsreaders rolled forward and stopped, with an audible creak. Its screen flickered for a moment, then a photo of a gently smiling human face appeared. It was the face of an elderly woman, with plenty of crinkly lines around the corners of the mouth and eyes. “Now, does that make you feel better about talking to me?”

“Gee-that looks like my mom!” said Do-Wop, staring.

“Funny you should mention that,” said Sushi. “It looks like my mom, too…”

“Of course I do,” said the newsreader. “I’m designed to project each customer’s personal maternal image so they’re getting the news from somebody they trust. And whom do you trust more than your mother- hmm?”

“I guess you have a point there,” said Sushi. “I’m looking for-my friend and I are looking for-our boss, Captain Jester. Can you tell us whether he’s shown up in the local news anytime recently?”

“Checking…” said the reader, her screen flickering through a series of graphics too rapid for the unaided eye to scan. After a few moments, the motherly face reappeared, this time with a hint of a worried frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have that name in my local newsfiles-assuming by ‘local’ you mean this planet, and by ‘recent’ you mean within the last month. Is that close enough?”

“Yeah, it ought to be,” said Sushi. “He should have gotten here before we did-unless the FTL paradoxes are acting up again… Well, we’ll just have to do our search the old-fashioned way. C’mon, Do-Wop, let’s get started.”

“Hey! Don’t forget-I gotta look up the winning numbers!” Do-Wop said.

“All right, sonny,” said the newsreader. “What do you want?”

Do-Wop nodded eagerly, and said, “Gimme the daily Play-Four and Crazy Six for the last two weeks on Lorelei. I got a feelin‘ my shuttle’s comin’ in today!“

“Ooh, I like a boy who isn’t afraid to take a risk,” said the newsreader, with a convincing simulation of a giggle. “Here you go, then-but remember, bet on your head, not around it!”

“What?” said Sushi, trying to make sense of the newsreader’s last words. But neither Do-Wop nor the newsreader was paying him any attention.

“Good morning, General Blitzkrieg,” said the robotic Captain Jester. “Allow me to introduce your partner for today-Lieutenant Armstrong.”

General Blitzkrieg turned an appraising eye on the clean-cut lieutenant, recognizing the officer who’d greeted him upon landing. “The lieutenant and I have already met,” he said. And if looks mean anything, the fellow ought to be a decent golfer, he added, silently. Armstrong’s erect bearing and trim figure held the promise of a sweet swing and a fair amount of distance. With any luck, the fellow would win his share of holes and in the process help the general shave a few strokes off his own score. He reached out his hand, and said, “Good to see you again, Lieutenant. I hope you’re not afraid to put a little hurting on your captain, because when I get on a golf course, I mean business.”

“I’ll give it my best shot, sir,” said Armstrong, timidly shaking the general’s proffered hand. “I won’t pretend to be the caliber of partner you usually get back at Headquarters…”

“Don’t put yourself down, man,” growled Blitzkrieg, scolding. “I mean to win this match, whether I get any help from you or not. And I can promise you I won’t hold it against you if you can help me pick up a hole or two.” And I promise that what little remains of your chance at a respectable Legion career will go straight down the toilet if you let that upstart Jester beat me.

“I don’t think Armstrong will hold you back any, General,” said Jester, grinning. “He’s a natural, if ever I saw one. Makes me wish I had more time to practice. Oh, and here comes my partner-I was afraid he’d been held up in town, but it looks as if he’s ready to go.”

General Blitzkrieg glanced at the diminutive figure hauling a half-size golf bag, then did a double take. “What the hell is that?” he exploded, staring at the four-foot-tall dinosaur in a Legion uniform.

Jester chuckled. “General, permit me to introduce Flight Leftenant Qual, our Zenobian liaison. He was the first Zenobian we ever met, and he’s taken to Alliance ways as if he was born 10 ‘em. Qual, meet General Blitzkrieg, my commanding officer.”

“Ah, the egregious generalissimo!” said Qual brightly. He dropped the golf bag and rushed forward to seize the general’s hand in both his, pumping vigorously. “I have followed your career with consternation!”

“Eh?” said Blitzkrieg. “I’m not sure I follow…”

“Qual’s translator plays some strange tricks,” said Jester. “Hard to tell what he means, half the time. Something to do with the Zenobian language, our comm people tell me. They’re looking into using it as a new method of encryption. But he’s a fine fellow, and nobody loves a round of golf better than he does-though he’s apt to try some very strange shots, every so often. Even so, I thought you’d like a chance to meet our native military liaison.”

“Well, as long as you’re not bringing in a ringer on me,” said the general, who’d had exactly that done to him on more than one occasion. The lizard didn’t look much like a golfer, but of course, few hustlers ever did.

“Oh, no,” said Jester, perhaps a bit too hastily. “No such thing, General. Flight Leftenant Qual started playing just a couple of months ago, and I consider myself lucky to shoot a round much under ninety, these days. That’s the downside of running a post like this-way too little time to keep up your golf game.“

Blitzkrieg allowed himself a tight-lipped smile; he wasn’t about to believe Jester for one moment. He wouldn’t put it past Jester to import a professional golfer from Lorelei to give him an edge in the match; he’d “drafted” more than one local pro for the same purpose, himself. And he certainly knew Jester wasn’t going to make the effort to put in a golf course on the post and then not make time to play on it himself. He smelled a very definite rat.