Phules Paradise

Today, however, the main subject of conversation among the assemblage was not who could shoot better or faster, or even who was ahead on the betting, but rather the unscheduled holo call from Legion Headquarters.

Military units, even more than corporate offices, are vulnerable to rumors, and the Omega Mob was no exception. The fact that no one knew for sure what had been said in the call only-added to, rather than dampened, the speculation.

Some thought their commander was being court-martialed ... again. Of course, there had been no new activity which would trigger such an action, but there were aspects of their normal modus operandi which would be vulnerable to various degrees of legal discouragement were they known to the authorities, either civil or Legion.

Yet another faction was guessing that their commander was about to be transferred to another unit-a thought which generated a certain amount of terror among those Legio

"Do you really think they'll send the captain to another unit?" one of the Legio

His companion grimaced, dangling his feet in the pool. "Sure they will. They assigned him to us as punishment, didn't they? Well, now that things are getting turned around, they're bound to pull him for another assignment."

"Not a chance," someone put in from one of the poolside tables. "Did you see the general's face when he got back on the shuttle? The captain's still in the doghouse as far as Headquarters is concerned."

"I don't know." The original questioner scowled. "Hey, Top! What do you think's going on?"

Brandy, the unit's Amazonian top sergeant, was sprawled at one of the poolside tables, filling the seat and her swimming suit more than amply. She was holding a drink in her right hand and a sidearm in her left, her favorite pose these days, and loosed an occasional shot downrange from where she sat, abandoning neither her seat nor her drinking for the exercise.

"Why ask me?" She shrugged, one strap of her suit slipping from its precarious hold on her shoulder. "Stripes or no, I'm just a grunt like you. Nobody tells me nothin' until it comes to passing out orders. Why don't you ask our fearless leaders?"

The Legio

One table away, a massive figure bent forward to confer with the figure barely half his size sharing the table with him.

"Gnat. You think Captain will accept transfer?"

Super Gnat, the company's smallest member, turned her attention to her Voltron partner. It was only recently that Tusk-anini had started taking part in the poolside gatherings, as the bright sun hurt his marblelike, nocturnal eyes and the odor given off from his hairy chest, back, arms, and head when wet was, politely put, less than pleasant even to himself. However, by steering clear of the water and utilizing a pair of jury-rigged sun goggles, he was now able to join in on the more social pastimes of the company.

"What's that, Tusk? Oh. No, I don't think he would ... If they give him a choice, that is. Sorry. I'm a little worried about the Top. Is it me, or is she drinking more lately?"

"Brandy?" Tusk-anini cranked his huge warthoglike head around to glance at the top sergeant. "I think she worried about captain. She love him, you know."

"She does?" his diminutive partner said, giving him her full attention. "I didn't know that."

Though she had long since grown used to the Voltron's nonhuman appearance, his broken-English speech made it easy to forget that he was easily one of the most intelligent Legio

"That all right," Tusk-anini said, twisting his features into one of his rare smiles. "Captain not know, either."

Before Super Gnat could pursue the subject further, however, there was a sudden clamor from one side of the pool.

"Hey! Here's the man who can tell us!"

"Beeker!"

"Hey, Beek! Got a sec?"

The commander's butler, Beeker, had just stepped through the entrance, taking the common shortcut across the pool/firing range area to the captain's quarters. Unfortunately this might not have been the wisest move. Though the butler was notoriously closemouthed about the confidences shared with him by his employer, the crew was still quick to seize on any chance of information and swarmed to him like locusts after the last ear of corn on the planet.

"What's the word, Beeker?"

"Is HQ after the captain again?"

"Is he being transferred?"

Becker was on the verge of getting backed against a wall when Brandy, quick despite her size, materialized between him and the advancing horde.

"As you were! All of you!"

This last was directed, along with a glare, at the two lieutenants, who had started to join the throng but now sheepishly resumed their seats.

"Leave the man alone! He doesn't know anything more than we do ... and if he did he couldn't tell us. You know the rules. Official Legion business comes through cha

The assemblage grumbled and cursed under their breath, but gave ground, reshuffling their groups as they went back to their original speculations.

"Thank you, Brandy," the butler murmured softly. "It was starting to get a bit ugly there for a minute."

The company's top sergeant barely acknowledged the thanks, continuing to glare at the retreating Legio

"Have you heard anything, Beek? Anything you can tell us?"

The butler hesitated, then relented.

"Only that a call came in from Legion Headquarters," he said. "I'm here looking for more information myself."

"Well, you might remind our Fearless Leader that he's got some folks out here who are a little curious about what's happening."

"I'll do my best ... and Brandy? Thanks again."

Of course, Brandy had been correct. Becker was not in the Legion chain of command, being privately employed by Phule, and was therefore doubly constrained from relaying information ... both by military procedure and by his professional ethic as a butler. His position did, however, allow him one privilege not accessible to the Legio

"Oh ... Hi, Becker. Come on in. I want your opinion on something."

Willard Phule was sprawled in a chair, his lanky form the picture of casual relaxation. To the butler, however, this pose conveyed the exact opposite message. Normally Phule was the embodiment of nervous energy during the day, constantly pacing and fidgeting as he tried to do or consider a dozen things at once. For him to sit still, as he was doing now, required a crisis of monumental proportions, one which-would put all other worries and tasks on a back burner while he weighed and considered the immediate problem. In short, anytime he seemed relaxed physically, it meant that he was racing about mentally.