“Pitti da Phule doesn’t frighten us,” said Weasel-face, with a quiet smile. “If he tries to interfere in our business, we can call on people who’ll make him think again.”
“Well, it’s not so much a question of interfering in your business,“ said Phule. ”I believe Pitti’s approach is more likely to be total cancellation of your business plan.“
“My friend, you aren’t in a position to be issuing threats,” growled Weasel-face. Phule remembered now that the woman who’d tricked him had called the man “Carmelo,” although there was no guarantee that was the man’s right name. He’d remember it, anyhow-just in case.
“Two points,” said Phule. “First, I am not your friend. And second, what I just said wasn’t a threat.”
“Oh yeah?” said Weasel-face. “What do you call it, then?”
Phule smiled, and said softly, “In my line of business, we call that an ultimatum.”
“Carmelo” just snorted and walked out, locking the door behind him.
Agent G. C. Fox drummed his fingers, waiting. The number he’d called rang for the fifth time, then a voice came through Fox’s earplug: “The party you are calling is not available. Please leave a message and your call will be returned.” A cacophonous beep followed, but Fox had already started the disconnect process. This was his fourth attempt to reach Captain Jester, and the message he’d left the first time had not been returned. Considering the message, it should have been.
So what did that mean? Fox took a sip of shandygaff, wiped the foam from his moustache with the back of his sleeve, and thought. The more Fox thought about it, the more convinced he was that the captain was already in trouble-and that he was going to need help getting out of it.
Helping off-worlders get out of trouble wasn’t really Fox’s job at all. He wasn’t any kind of cop or a detective- just a customs inspector. But he made it a point to keep track of interesting visitors to Old Earth. Sometimes, he could steer them to a business or service they could benefit from. His friends who ran those businesses benefited from it, too-and so did Fox, thanks to the finders fees and commissions his friends passed along to him. They helped stretch the customs agent’s not-so-grand salary enough to bring in a few of the better things of life.
He’d made it a point to look up Willard Phule on the newsnets, after he’d seen him come through customs. He’d learned a fair amount about the captain’s background, and his career on the various worlds Omega Company had been posted to. It might or might not turn out to be profitable-but it never hurt to do the research. Fox had learned that knowing something always paid better than not knowing it.
He’d liked the Legion captain when they’d talked. And right after Phule’s passage through customs, he’d read over a list of recent immigrants to Old Earth-all agents got the lists, and some of them-like Fox-made it a point to read them. Later, when he did his research on Phule, one name had jumped out at him. He had an excellent memory for names. A particular person had arrived on Old Earth two days before Phule. Her presence here might be a coincidence, of course. On the other hand, this was somebody Phule had bumped heads with in the past. That, Fox figured, was exactly the kind of information that a prudent man like Willard Phule would want to have. He might even find it in his heart to reward the person who’d brought it to him. Why shouldn’t Fox be the one to reap the reward?
The only problem was, he couldn’t get in touch with Phule…
There was someone else he could call, though. Someone who might be very grateful for advance warning of possible trouble for the young Space Legion captain. Fox picked up his vidphone, entered a number, and in a moment a face appeared on the screen. For a moment the other party frowned, reacting to Fox’s uniform. Then the man relaxed, recognizing his caller. “Ah,
Fox smiled. “Actually, it’s the other way around this time,” he said. “I’ve learned something I think you’ll want to know…”
After Fox told his story, and added the fact that Phule hadn’t been answering his phone, the other party nodded. “This does not smell good,” he said.
“Think nothing of it,” said Fox. “I don’t like to see somebody get in trouble when I could have prevented it.”
Thumper and the other members of his training squad were well into an evening of creative goofing off when the captain walked into the Enlisted Legionnaires’ Lounge. By this time of day, they were usually free to follow their own routines-which, in the Omega Mob, included drinking, swapping stories, playing bar games, dancing to Roadkill’s band, or joking around. Unless there was a real emergency, sergeants and officers tended to leave them alone.
So nobody was expecting Captain Jester to order them to report to the gym, on the double. If he had been a mere sergeant, they might have complained. But the captain was a different story; not only was he the top authority on the planet-at least, when generals weren’t visiting-he also knew when to give his people a little slack. So Roadkill and his buddies shut off their instruments, and Omega Training Squad obediently trooped down to the gym. They lined up in a formation that would’ve made even Brandy proud. Or so Thumper thought, as he took his place at one end of the front rank, next to his buddy Mahatma.
Surprise! For the first time since he’d joined Omega Company, Thumper found himself being yelled at by his company commander. Not by a sergeant, which wouldn’t have been any surprise-yelling at the troops was what sergeants were supposed to do. Not even one of the lieutenants, who were usually too busy to bother. Nope, this was the CO himself, hollering and cussing worse than Sergeant Brandy.
“You look like a bunch of Fungolian weevils! Who taught you how to stand at attention ? Do you call that a regulation haircut? Wipe that smirk off your face, legionnaire!” The entire squad seemed stunned-they’d never seen the captain like this.
But after a little while, Brandy showed up, and things started looking normal again. Thumper wondered if this was some kind of training exercise; that was the best explanation he could think of for the way Brandy and the captain acted. After all, he’d seen a good bit of Captain Jester while he was caddying for Flight Leftenant Qual in the golf matches. He hadn’t expected the captain to act like this, not at all.
Then-surprise number three!-General Blitzkrieg walked into the gym! Thumper hoped the general didn’t remember that unfortunate incident with a bucket full of stinky stuff back in basic training. It hadn’t really been Thumper’s fault, but it sure looked like it when somebody handed him the bucket after emptying it over the general’s head while the lights were out. The general seemed to be the kind of human who remembered things like that. Or maybe he didn’t; at least he hadn’t said anything out on the golf course, while Thumper caddied for Flight Leftenant Qual. Still, the general might not pay attention to his golf opponent’s caddy; but here he was on Legion business. In spite of himself, Thumper shivered.
Sergeant Brandy called Mahatma forward, and told the general about the squad’s special mission. This was the first time Thumper had heard anything about it, but as he listened to her, he thought it would explain a lot of things that hadn’t made sense before. Even when Mahatma asked the general one of his pain-in-the-ass questions, Brandy explained it so the general seemed to understand it.
The only thing that didn’t fit was the captain’s reaction. Thumper thought he looked surprised. Was the secret mission supposed to be a secret from the captain? He certainly didn’t look as if he’d ever heard of it. Or was he worried that Mahatma wouldn’t be enough of a pain?
Thumper was still trying to figure it out when Brandy said, “Legionnaire Mahatma will now demonstrate his military skills.” That caught Thumper’s attention, all right. Mahatma was the only member of the training squad close to Thumper’s size, so the two of them often ended up as sparring partners in hand-to-hand combat drills. Thumper had a lot of respect for Mahatma’s skills. The little human was fast, and sneaky, and a lot stronger than he looked.
So it was only natural when Sergeant Brandy pointed to Thumper, and said, “Legionnaire Thumper, front and center to spar with Mahatma.”
Thumper had taken two steps forward when the general barked, “Wait a minute! If you’re going to demonstrate this man’s military skills, I want to see a real opponent out here. You’re not going to match him with some fluffy bunny, Sergeant.”
Thumper thought he was a pretty decent opponent, but he could sort of see the general’s point. Even
