might have pointed out that, since nobody else on the planet was giving odds on General Blitzkrieg’s golf games, Harry wasn’t promising all that much. But since the legionnaire who pointed that out was likely to have it pointed out that Harry was under no obligation to take bets from anyone, the claim went unchallenged. In fact, Harry had plenty of takers for his odds-a predictable benefit of running the only game in town.
Harry wasn’t picky; he’d give odds on almost anything you could find somebody willing to bet on. He was running a pool on the Zenobians’ team sports, which almost none of the Legionnaires understood (though there were plenty who claimed to). Bets on the arrival time of the next Supply shuttle were one of his most popular offerings. And if things were really slow, he could always fall back on organizing competitions among members of Omega Company, on which other members were then encouraged to bet.
“Who d’ya want, Roadkill?” said Harry, as one of Brandy’s recruits studied the odds board. “If you’re a bet- tin‘ man, there’s some pretty juicy situations there.”
The board currently had the general the favorite at two to one; Lieutenant Armstrong was at five to two; Captain Jester was at four to one; and Flight Leftenant Qual was a rank outsider at ten to one. There were also plenty of side bets, such as odds on one or more of the players scoring a hole in one, longest drive of the day on the par five second, over/under for total putts on the afternoon, number of balls snatched by florbigs, and so forth. The variety of options was a tribute to Harry’s hard work; he’d spent the better part of a weekend researching golf before he had the faintest clue how the game was played, let alone what somebody might want to bet on.
“Why’s the general such a big favorite?” said Roadkill, squinting at the odds board. “He don’t look like much of a player to me. Way out of shape…”
“Ah, but he’s got the edge in experience,” said Harry, knowingly. “Condition don’t mean that much in this game, and there’s no defensemen goin‘ upside your head if you take your eye off ’em. All a dude has to do is hit his best shot and watch it go. How you bettin‘?”
Roadkill rubbed his chin. “Twenty gradoojies on the captain,” he said, decisively. “And another five on Lieutenant Armstrong for a hole in one.”
“OK, got you covered,” said Chocolate Harry, smiling. “Who else wants some action?”
“I would like to bet, but first I have a question,” said a familiar voice. Harry turned to see Mahatma standing there, an enigmatic smile on his face.
Harry groaned. “Oh, man, I’m not gonna have to explain the whole history of golf to you, am I?” he asked- only half-joking. Every officer and noncom in the company had learned to tread very carefully when Mahatma approached them with one of his questions.
“Not today, Sergeant Harry,” said Mahatma. “I found a good history on the Net, although I may have other questions on it later. Today I want to know why the general is permitted to hit several drives for every one his opponents hit, then to choose the best to play.”
“Uh, I think that’s what they call a handiclap,” said Harry, with utter confidence. “That’s like a courtesy they extend to the visiting player, so’s the local guys don’t have an unfair advantage.”
“That makes some sense,” said Mahatma. Harry breathed a deep sigh-prematurely, as he soon learned. “But tell me, Sergeant Harry-this is a new course, so our local players have not played it any more than the general has, have they?”
“I guess that’s right, Mahatma,” said Chocolate Harry, doing his best to appear unruffled. “But of course, Qual’s a native, and the captain and lieutenant have both had a good long while to get acclimated to these here desert conditions, which the general, being from off-world, hasn’t done. So they’d still have that local edge. Can’t beat that local edge.”
“The general seems to be beating it very consistently,” said Mahatma, brightly.
“So
“Why, that is a wonderful suggestion, Sergeant Chocolate Harry,” said Mahatma. “I believe I will do just that.” And he turned on his heel, leaving C. H. to wonder just which of his two suggestions Mahatma was going to follow.
“Look here,” said Phule. He was in the spaceport departure lounge, his luggage already checked, and a first-class oneway ticket to Hix’s World in his hand. “I’ve been on Rot’n‘art for nearly a week. I came here to find my butler and his girlfriend, and that was all I really cared about. And now I found out they’re gone to Hix’s World…”
“Bad luck,” said Sodden, firmly. “If we’d just been a little bit quicker following up that one lead-you’ll remember I was urging you to do just that…” He slapped his hand against the molded symwood arm of the waiting-room bench in evident frustration.
“No point in might-have-beens now,” said Phule, with a shrug. “You’ve done the best you could for me, and I don’t hold it against you that my butler moved too fast for us to catch him. I’ve just got to go to the next place and try to catch him there.“
“Well, that’s mighty big of you, Captain,” said Sodden. He stood up and stuck out his hand. Phule shook it. “If you ever come back this way and need somebody in my line of work, just give a yell and I’m your man,” said the detective.
“Well, there is one last thing I’d like to figure out,” said Phule, holding on to Sodden’s hand. “The longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve realized that this whole planet is obsessed with something I don’t understand at all.”
“Really?” said Sodden. He rubbed his chin with the free hand, a contemplative look on his face. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what you mean, Captain.”
“Greebfap,” Phule barked.
“Hey, no point in getting fritzy about it, Captain,” said Sodden, pulling away his hand and stepping backward. The bench kept him from retreating farther. “Just tell me what you’re talking about, and I’ll let you in on it.”
“I’m talking about greebfap,” snarled Phule, stepping forward and grabbing Sodden’s lapel. “People are rioting in the streets, about to bring down the planetary government, all because of greebfap. Greebfap! Greebfap! Sodden, you’re going to tell me what greebfap is before I leave this planet!”
A mechanical voice from the speaker interposed itself between his question and whatever Sodden might have been about to say. “Sagittarius Arm Special now ready for preboarding,” it said. “Stops at Leibnitz, Hix’s World, New Baltimore, and Glimber. First-class passengers, those who need assistance in boarding, and sophont groups with immature family members, please come to the gate for preboarding.” A wheeled methane enclosure trundled noisily forward, its inhabitants dimly visible through the portholes. In a pocket Velcroed to the outside a set of tickets to Glimber was visible.
“There’s your ship,” said Sodden, pointing in the general direction of the gate. “Better get on board…”
“I heard the announcement,” growled Phule. “I still have half an hour before they dog the doors shut. And that’s all the time I need to make you tell me what greebfap is all about.”
“Willard Phule! Or should I say,
“Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty,” said Phule, recognizing one of his mother’s comrades-in-arms from the charity gala circuit. “What a surprise…”
“Equally, I’m sure,” said the woman. “I take it you’re here on Legion duty, helping put down those
“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule, as noncommittally as he could manage. “I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced…”
“Fortunately, only slightly,” said Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty, putting on her most courageous expression. “My hoverlimo was
“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule again. He’d learned long since that it was the safest thing one could say to women of a certain social class. “Please give Mr. Biffwycke my regards.”
