Phule's Errand

mechanical voices.

“Who the hell asked you?” Blitzkrieg bellowed, loud enough to rattle windows on the other side of the camp.

The three Zenobians stood there unperturbed, baring their carnosaur grins at the general. After a moment, one said, “We take self-regard that you inquire of our tasking, oh mighty Flashbang.” The others nodded and clapped their miniature hands.

“There y’go, General,” murmured Rev. “Little fellers just love to work.”

“They’re spying!” shouted Blitzkrieg. “I don’t know what this machine does, but…”

“We shall gleefully elucidate, oh mighty one,” said the Zenobian with the nasal translator. “Engage the revealing rings, my hearty fellows!” The others fell instantly to work, throwing foot-long toggle switches and adjusting knobs the size of dinner plates.

“What the hell are they doing?” said Blitzkrieg. “I don’t like the looks of this…”

“All will be transparent in a small fraction of a time unit,” said another Zenobian. Out in the desert beyond the edge of the camp, something purple hovered in the air. “Ho, Svip! Retreat the dexter node, lest it overwarm!”

“Dexter node withdrawn,” said Svip. “Reification proceeding.” The purple something became clearer, and perhaps a bit closer.

“Aw, this looks like one of their real good ones,” said Rev, staring at the purple. “I don’t understand jes’ how this thing works, but it sure does beat anything else I’ve seen…”

Just as he’d said this, the purple shape coalesced into a life-size gryff, one of the large herbivores native to the fertile plains that covered much of the continent west of the desert in which the Legion camp lay. It appeared to be munching on a thick cud of greenery, staring complacently into space, perhaps a dozen yards beyond the base’s perimeter.

“What the devil is that thing?” said Blitzkrieg.

“Some kind of critter,” said Rev, looking at it with mild curiosity. “That might be the kind they call a grip-they claim it won’t bother you if you keep your distance. The locals say they’ve kilt off all the dangerous ones. They didn’t get all the ones that like to nibble on people, though.”

“The sklern performs exemplarily!” said Svip, the monotone of the translator not entirely suppressing his enthusiasm.

“I don’t like the way that damned thing’s looking at me,” muttered Blitzkrieg, drawing back a bit from the perimeter.

“Aw, it can’t hurt nobody, General,” said Rev. “It’s jes’ an…”

At this point the gryff let out a roar and tossed its head, its eyes-which were about the size of grapefruits- apparently fixed on Blitzkrieg. The general withdrew another step, and even Rev seemed startled by the sudden noise. The gryff raised one foreleg and began pawing at the ground-it would have taken a keen, cold-blooded observer to note that the claws of its pawing foot were disturbing neither the dirt nor the vegetation through which they passed.

Give Blitzkrieg some credit for courage, in any case. It wasn’t until the gryff let out another snort, tossed its head, and broke into a full charge in the general’s direction that he broke and ran.

It wasn’t until he was nearly back to the base module that he stopped to determine that it hadn’t followed him; indeed, it was nowhere to be seen.

15

Journal #846-

On most planets, the customs officials perform a cursory examination of one’s papers and wave through all but the most blatantly irregular. Naturally there are local quirks and quibbles-only a nitwit would attempt to smuggle raw Lupretian pastries onto Nostilla II, for example. And if there has been some recent smuggling scandal, or some outrageous crime blamed on an off-worlder, inspections understandably become more stringent. But otherwise, little short of an automatic weapon strapped across one’s shoulders seems to catch the agents’ attention.

Things are arranged otherwise on Old Earth. There, the agents inquire closely into one’s origins and business on the planet. Considering that the planet claims to be the home world of the entire human species, one would think the doors would be open to those scattered human descendents seeking to visit the world of their ancestors. Not so-a Syn-Man goes through Old Earth immigration with fewer questions asked than a human bearing an off-world passport.

And so, upon my arrival on the planet, I found myself dealing with a customs official whose interest in my background would have been more appropriate in a bank officer deciding whether to advance me a substantial loan than in a government functionary on whose world I intended to spend a large fraction of my disposable income. My efforts to point out this discrepancy met, I am sorry to report, with utter incomprehension.

After a considerable delay, the two legionnaires had worked their way to the front of the spaceport line leading to the Old Earth customs inspectors. An incredibly archaic-looking electric sign lit up with the word next in three languages that Sushi recognized and a couple more that he didn’t. He and his partner picked up their duffel bags and moved forward.

The official in the booth was a bored-looking Terran with dark hair and a bushy moustache. He raised an eyebrow, and asked, “You two are traveling together?”

“Yeah, we’re on assignment together,” said Sushi, putting his passport on the agent’s desk. He and Do-Wop had worn their Legion uniforms on the assumption that customs might go easier on servicemen. The ploy had worked on enough planets that it couldn’t hurt to try it here.

“Really,” said the customs man, dryly. His plastic badge read agt. g. c. fox. “I wasn’t aware there were any Legion bases on-world. Exactly what assignment do you have on Old Earth?”

“Military secret,” said Do-Wop, before Sushi could get his mouth open. “You shouldn’t wanna know, y’know?”

“Personally, I really couldn’t give a fleener,” said Fox, leaning forward on the desk. His hand rested lightly on Sushi’s passport. “Mind my own business, that’s my policy. But my bosses want to know why people are coming to our planet-they have the idea that’s a good way to prevent trouble. Since they’re the ones paying my salary, I always ask. So I’ll ask you again-secret or not, what kind of assignment do two Space Legion men have here on Old Earth?“

This time Sushi got the first word in edgewise, largely by the expedient of tramping down hard on Do-Wop’s toe. “That’s a great policy, Agent Fox,” he said, while Do-Wop groaned out a series of muffled curses. “As it happens, my friend was a bit hesitant about telling you what we’re here for, because it’s a special training mission for the intelligence branch of the Legion, and of course one of the things they’ve been emphasizing is that we should always keep our real mission secret. But of course, that hardly applies to somebody who’s pretty much in the same kind of business, you know?”

Fox frowned. “Intelligence branch of the Legion? This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”

“Well, that just goes to show how top secret it is,” said Sushi, with a wink. “I’m sure we can trust you to keep it under your hat, Agent Fox.”

“Oh, I’m very discreet,” said Fox, nodding. “And I certainly understand how an intelligence operation needs to be kept quiet.” He paused, looking first at Do-Wop, then at Sushi. “The only thing is, I’ve been doing this job so long that I have a pretty good nose for a scam. And if this isn’t the biggest scam I’ve seen this month, I’m going to put in for early retirement. Not that that’s a bad idea anyhow. So-one more time: What’s your business here? And if I don’t like your answer this time, I’ll introduce you to the fellows in the back room. They’ve got suspicious minds and disgustingly long fingers.”