as four drives- “Just getting a feel for the course,” he’d say-then play whichever ball happened to lie best. “This is the one I hit first, right?” If an approach shot went astray, he’d take another mulligan or two. What was most astonishing to Armstrong was that Blitzkrieg appeared to have no notion whatsoever that his score for the front nine was in any way questionable.
In any case, General Blitzkrieg was in the lead, and in a good mood. The florbigs had left his ball entirely alone, he’d had a long cool G&T after the front nine, and now he was gleefully rehashing every good shot he’d made-some of them completely imaginary, but not even Qual was clueless enough to challenge him on that point.
Armstrong had won the last hole with a par four; the other three players had holed out in five, with Qual and the robot “Captain Jester” both missing tough six-footers. True to form, General Blitzkrieg had picked up his thirty-foot uphill putt once Armstrong’s ball was in the hole, saying “that one’s a gimme, now.” In any case, Armstrong had the honors, and responded by thumping a number two wood straight down the middle, with a clean shot at the fat of the green. “Great golf shot,” said Captain Jester, with a broad grin. It was uncanny how much the robot resembled its prototype, right down to the nuances of behavior; it was exactly the way the real captain would have responded.
Qual and the general followed, and for once both somehow managed to keep the ball in the fairway, though short of Armstrong’s drive. Now the robot was up, waggling a driving iron at the teed ball. “Let’s see if I can put this one past you, Armstrong,” it said, shading its eyes to peer down the fairway.
The general said, “Ten dollars says you can’t.” He’d made three or four similar side bets, and lost all but one of them, but if he had any memory of his losses, it didn’t deter him. Maybe it was his way of putting pressure on an opponent.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” said the robot. “You’re on, General-watch this!” It took a long back-swing, then brought the club head down on the ball with frightening velocity. The ball streaked off down the center of the course, seemingly inches off the ground.
Whether by sheer blind luck, or as a cleverly disguised way to let the general win another hole, the robot’s drive was aimed directly at a low, flat rock perhaps forty yards down the course. If it had hit at almost any random angle, it would have bounced off in some unpredictable direction- most likely, into the deep rough. But, as luck would have it, the ball hit square on almost the only face of the rock perpendicular to its line of flight, and before anyone could say a word, it had rebounded directly back to the tee and struck the robot square in the forehead with a sickening
Phule had spent a good fraction of the morning learning that, if Hix’s World had a private detective agency, it was extremely private. Secret might be a better description-at least, there were none listed on the Net, nor in the business directory, nor in the phone books. And Carlotta, the receptionist who’d greeted him upon arrival, showed no sign of comprehending what he was looking for when he asked her advice. He was beginning to wonder if anybody on Hix’s World did anything that required investigation, improbable as that seemed.
In fact, it didn’t make sense at all. There was certainly a government here, and Phule had even seen evidence of a police force, although not one that would have impressed visitors from a built-up world like Rot’n‘art or New Baltimore. And he had no doubt that people here were swindling their business partners and cheating on their spouses just as frequently as on any other world he’d been to. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how they found out what was going on-unless everybody did their own private investigations. Which is what it looked as if he was going to have to do if he was going to find Nightingale- and ultimately, Beeker.
So: back to square one. He knew they were here, and in fact they couldn’t be far away. If he visited the nearby hotels and rooming houses, he had a good chance of either spotting them or getting a desk clerk or waiter to recognize them by description. It would be labor-intensive, but it was fairly straightforward.
Alternately, he could start visiting places they were likely to go, hoping to intercept them there. That also required time, but a bit less legwork. He could pick a museum gallery or a park bench and wait-if he picked the right one. It’d be just his luck to spend hours inspecting the crowds someplace they’d already checked off their list. What kind of attraction would Beeker be drawn to? He realized he had no better idea than he’d had on Rot’n‘art.
Well, one thing they had to do was eat. And even if their hotel had a four-star restaurant, they’d likely want to sample the others in the neighborhood, if only for a change of scenery-or to avoid a special trip back in the midst of a day of sightseeing. That was the ticket! He’d pick a popular lunch spot near tourist spots, and lie in wait for them there. The Directory of Local Attractions provided by the hotel gave him the names of several likely spots; he chose one, got directions there, and headed out.
Encore Silver Plate was a little cafe and wine bar with outdoor tables, half a block from the main shopping street in the largest nearby town, New Yarmouth. The walls were hung with works of local artists, all priced for sale, and none to Phule’s taste. But the place was obviously popular-nearly full, in fact-and the colorful sign in front was large enough to catch the eye of any jaded shopper looking for a place to take a lunch break. Best of all, the outside tables gave a clear view along the street in both directions, as well as of the foot traffic on High Street.
Phule ordered a large coffee and settled himself at a table near the curb, with a local newsprint he’d picked up on the way into town. A look around at the clientele suggested that the place was frequented equally by locals and off-worlders here to see the Floribunda Fete.
The tourists sat in small groups, ostentatiously dressed in expensive walking or cycling outfits, noisily comparing notes on maps and guidebooks, or off-world newsprints. The locals-most of them wearing casual outfits that wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow on any of the settled worlds of the Alliance-also kept to themselves, swapping hilarious gossip about their neighbors or playing some local card game-which looked to be an improbable cross between cribbage and tonk. They paid no attention to the tourists, who returned the favor.
Phule wasn’t especially interested in either group, except for a particular pair of tourists. He’d already determined that neither Beeker nor Nightingale were in the cafe or on the nearby streets. He took a sip of his coffee, opened the newsprint, and sat back in a position where he could see along the street in both directions without lowering the paper or otherwise making it obvious he was looking for someone. He figured that even if someone noticed him scanning the crowd, they were most likely to assume he was- like at least two other men in the cafe-a bored tourist awaiting his wife’s return from a shopping expedition.
An hour passed; Phule bought a second coffee and some kind of sweet pastry, overtipping the girl behind the counter-if he had to sit at his table a long time, he didn’t want her to get too annoyed at him, maybe even decide he looked suspicious and call the authorities on him. He’d already lost interest in the newsprint. But he’d made up his mind to stay here till after lunchtime, then move on to someplace else and take up the vigil there- unless he got a break first.
After another hour, he was beginning to regret the two coffees, good as they were. There was a restroom inside the cafe, of course. But to use it was to risk missing Beeker or Nightingale, should they by chance pick that very moment to pass by. He sat there a while longer, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he wondered what professional detectives did in this situation. Finally, after convincing himself that the odds of missing his quarry were so slim as to be negligible, he gave in to the inevitable and went inside.
Naturally, he’d been gone mere seconds before Beeker and Nightingale strolled slowly past the cafe, stopping to read the menu and peer inside before moving on down the street. But by the time Phule was back outside, they’d turned the corner. He never knew how close he’d come to finding them.
Worse yet, he never finished reading his newsprint. If he’d gotten as far as the sports section, he could have seen a headline reading: “Rot’n‘art Edges NB in Alliance Cup.” In smaller type, just below, it read, “Greebfap Beams in Shot at Beeper to Ice OT Win.”
“Why do you want to go to the captain’s hotel?” asked Sushi. “Rembrandt ordered us not to let the captain know we’re here trying to help him. Or did you forget that?”
Do-Wop shrugged. “I didn’t forget nothin‘,” he said. “Thing is, we’ve seen Nightingale twice, already. So we know she-and OF Beeky-has gotta be close. But the captain, he don’t know that. So we’re gonna leave him a ’nonymous tip sayin‘ the people he’s lookin’ for are right here under his nose.”
“Well, that makes sense,” said Sushi. He found a piece of paper and jotted down a brief message. He folded it, wrote on the outside “To Capt. Jester,” and stuck it in the pocket of his jumpsuit. “OK, let’s go,” he said.
They walked over to the local bike shop, where they rented a tandem model, the cheapest alternative for
