Phule's Errand

backhanded slap. The woman was nearly knocked off her feet by the blow. Only the man’s rough grip on her arm with his other hand prevented her from falling outright.

“What’s going on here?” shouted Phule. At the sound of Phule’s voice, the man turned and looked at him-. indignant at being interrupted, to judge from his expression. But at the same time, the woman broke the grip and stumbled toward Phule, who stepped forward to shelter her. He quickly pulled her out of the alleyway and onto the crowded street.

“What’s the matter?” said Phule. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, and wore something that Phule mentally classified as a “peasant dress”-not that he had any knowledge of what peasants wore these days, let alone whether any peasants were still around to wear it.

The woman cast her gaze back over her shoulder. There was a bruise starting to form under her left eye. “That man-he tried to kill me!” she gasped, turning to look up into Phule’s eyes. Her eyes were dark and pleading as she held onto his arm, obviously frightened.

“You get in my way, I kill you too!” said the man, waving a fist. He took a threatening step forward.

That made up Phule’s mind. “Come on!” He grabbed her hand and set off at a pace he hoped she would be able to keep up with. A block away, he looked back at the alleyway; Weasel-face was standing there, hands on hips, staring angrily at them. But he had made no effort to follow.

“I think we’re safe,” he said. “Do you have anywhere safe to go?”

“I do, but I am afraid of him,” she said. “What if he follows up?”

“Well, come along with me,” said Phule. “We’ll go someplace he can’t follow us, and then we’ll figure out how you can get away from him. I can’t really do much else for you-I’m just here for a short time, and have important business of my own.” He made a mental note to himself to stay alert for any funny business on the woman’s part; it wouldn’t be unheard of for an attractive “victim” to lure an off-world tourist into following her someplace where Weasel-face, who would of course turn out to be her accomplice, could rob him.

“Yes, I will come with you,” said the woman, darting another glance backward. “But hurry, please-I am afraid of him.”

“He doesn’t look very frightening to me,” said Phule. “Just stay close to me and I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you.” He led her in the direction of his hotel, glancing over his shoulder to see if Weasel-face was following. Apparently not; so far, so good, he thought. He wondered if there was some way to give the woman any long- term security. She did seem to be genuinely afraid. Pitti da Phule might have some suggestions on that score…

Suddenly he realized that it seemed to be taking a long time to get to the hotel. It should be just a block or so ahead, on the right-hand corner… but no, it was nowhere to be seen. I ought to stop and get my bearings, Phule thought to himself. “Hold on a second, miss,” he said to the woman. To his surprise, she just kept walking-and he kept walking with her. His feet didn’t seem to want to stop…

“What’s happening?” he said. For some reason, he couldn’t raise his voice above a husky whisper. Then, he remembered: When she’d taken his arm after coming out of the alleyway, her nails had dug into his skin. A glance down showed a small red mark on his wrist. Putting two and two together at last, he blurted out, “You’ve drugged me! Where are you taking me?”

“Not to worry, signore,” she said. “Nobody wants to hurt you. I’m sure you are worth very much more unharmed, and I don’t think you would enjoy it, either. Just come along quietly with me. Don’t fight the ‘zombie’ shot, and my friend Carmelo doesn’t have to do anything. He is so much happier when he doesn’t have to do anything, capisceT

Phule looked behind him, and saw Weasel-face- undoubtedly Carmelo-walking a short distance behind, a sardonic smile on his face. But whatever drugs the woman had given him, they seemed to work just fine. He followed her without question along the Roman streets, his feet moving steadily despite his urgent desire to turn and run away.

General Blitzkrieg let out a deep breath. The charging Zenobian monster hadn’t breached the base perimeter. And he felt good that he’d managed to sprint a solid thirty meters-or at least, as close to a sprint as was consonant with the dignity of a senior officer. His heart had stopped pounding after no more than five minutes, and he’d managed to avoid being seen by any low-ranking legionnaires. Only that phony chaplain, Rev, had seen him flee in panic, and Rev had looked genuinely scared himself when the beast put on its charge. So the story wasn’t likely to leak out from that quarter.

He still hadn’t figured out what the damned Zenobians’ spy apparatus was all about. With their impenetrable jargon, the little lizards had managed to keep him from learning anything about it. And then that monster had shown up… just in time to keep him from asking the pertinent questions he’d had right on the tip of his tongue. Maybe the monster would attack the lizards. Or maybe they’d called it somehow-with the machine? Could they be training it to attack the base at their command?

Well, there was one person on this godforsaken base who’d better know what it was all about: Jester. The fellow was supposed to be in command here, not that Blitzkrieg had seen any sign of it. Had to admire the way the fellow hit a golf ball, though-that was quite an exhibition he’d put on today. The rap he’d taken on the noggin must’ve gotten him riled up. He’d made some spectacular shots, and with a few lucky breaks, he’d put together a round of golf a lot of pros would have envied. Of course, tomorrow was another day-and Blitzkrieg knew that, except for today, he’d more than held his own against the local talent. Luck had a way of evening out.

But he had other business with Jester, now. Serious Legion business. Time to take the gloves off and show Captain Smart-ass Jester who was in charge. And if the little rich brat didn’t have some damned good answers, the general was going to make him wish he’d never heard of the Space Legion. There were a lot of Legion posts that could make this planet, even with its desert climate and alien monsters, look like a playpen. And Blitzkrieg was just itching to find an excuse to send Jester to one of them…

Blitzkrieg walked to the nearest door and entered the base module. He still hadn’t learned exactly how the thing was laid out-Jester had set the thing up according to some half-baked plan of his own rather than following the approved plans for Legion installations. Here was the enlisted men’s barbershop, closed for the evening now, and over there was a bank of vending machines-a small but lucrative profit center that no Legion base could afford to do without. If he turned left here, it ought to take him to Comm Central, and from there, Jester’s office was in easy reach. Assuming the fellow ever spent any time at all in the office-it was beginning to look as if he was a full-time golfer, with Legion responsibilities a distant second. Probably just as well, considering that Jester was a lead-pipe cinch to screw up any Legion work that came his way…

Halfway down the hall to Comm Central, General Blitzkrieg stopped as a familiar sound caught his ear. He’d been hearing it for his entire Legion career, on bases spanning half the galaxy. It was such an inevitable part of the usual background noise of a Legion base that he’d almost failed to notice it-except that here, here on rich-boy Jester’s custom-built base, it seemed out of place. It was the sound of a squad being chewed out by a superior. And to his utter astonishment, the voice doing the chewing out was none other than Jester’s!

The sound came from a side corridor leading to a set of double doors. A small printed sign above the doors identified the room as the gym. His curiosity running rampant, Blitzkrieg pushed open the doors and stepped inside. There stood Jester, bracing a motley collection of Omega Company legionnaires with their first sergeant- the fat woman who’d taken a Legion name after some kind of liquor, exactly in character for this sorry outfit. And for once, Jester was the perfect image of an officer-his uniform immaculate, his posture exemplary, and fire in his eye. And for all their shoddy appearance, the grunts were showing something resembling respect, as well. It was so completely out of character for Omega Company that General Blitzkrieg was speechless for a moment.

He watched in shocked silence as the sergeant called forward one of the recruits-a little, round-faced fellow with eyeglasses. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he blurted out, “Well, well, Captain-what the devil’s going on here?”

Cool as a comet at the farthest reaches of its orbit, Jester turned to face him and snapped off a crisp salute. “General Blitzkrieg!” Behind him, the sergeant barked “Ten-hut!” and the legionnaires straightened up-about as well as he’d expect from their sort. The open fear on their faces was a sight the general had never tired of seeing. Involuntarily, he felt an evil grin spread across his face. He’d come all the way from Rahnsome to Zenobia to strike fear and awe into these third-rate legionnaires. Up to now, he’d frittered away his stay playing golf with Jester-not that he hadn’t enjoyed it.

Now he was really going to have some fun. “On second thought, don’t mind me, Captain. The sergeant was