Phules Paradise

"Captain Jester?" she said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

The commander rose lazily to his feet from his seat on the sofa.

"I need to talk to you right now. I was told-"

"Excuse me," Phule said, holding up a restraining hand with a smile. "Now that you know who I am, may I ask who you are?"

Though they eventually grow to dislike the intrusions on their privacy by droves of nameless admirerers, big-name entertainers nonetheless depend on public recognition for their livelihood. It is therefore more than a little jarring to them to be confronted by someone who is not only unimpressed by but unaware of their identity.

"Tough house," the intruder muttered, almost to herself. "All right, Captain. We'll play it your way. I'm Dee Dee Watkins, the featured attraction for the casino's grand-opening show."

"Got it," Phule said with a curt nod. "Forgive me for not recognizing you, Ms. Watkins. Though I'm familiar with the name, I rarely have time to watch the holos, and am woefully ignorant when it comes to the various entertainers, much less their current positions in the pecking order. Now then, what can I do to help you?"

"I was just checking on the showroom's availability for rehearsals and was told that I was going to be working with a live stage crew instead of a computerized setup-by your orders."

"That's correct," the commander said. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Aside from the fact that a live crew never handles their cues the same way twice, not at all," the singer said sarcastically. "Look, Captain. It's been a long time since I worked in front of an audience. I'm going to have my hands full remembering my own cues without wondering whether or not the follow spot is going to be on me or on the piano when it comes up."

"I guess my information was incorrect," Phule said. "I was told that you would prefer to work with a live crew, provided they were competent of course."

"Oh?" Dee Dee frowned. "Who told you that?"

"I'm afraid I did, love."

She turned toward the speaker, then did a visible double take.

"Lex? My God, is that you? I didn't recognize you in that getup. Did you enlist or something?"

The actor shot a quick glance at Phule before answering.

"Just a temporary arrangement, I assure you," he said with a smile too easy to be genuine. "As far as the stage crew goes, would it help at all if I gave you my personal reassurance that things will be handled properly?"

"You're working crew?" Dee Dee said incredulously.

Lex's smile tightened slightly.

"I'm managing the crew," he corrected, "but I've worked with them long enough that I feel confident they can handle it."

"I didn't know you knew anything about the techie side of theater."

"I've worked a few summer-stock tours," the actor said with a shrug. "In that situation, you do a bit of everything. One week you're playing the lead, the next week you're working lights-"

"Sorry to interrupt this reunion," the commander broke in, "but there are still a lot of things we have to cover in our meeting. If there are no further questions, Ms. Watkins?"

"Can I be excused from the rest of the meeting, Captain?" Lex said. "We've already covered the stuff that concerns me, and there are a few things I'd like to go over with Dee Dee while she's free ...

"Go on ahead," Phule said, sinking onto the sofa once more. "But report back to me when you're finished. I want to be sure to be kept apprised of any modifications in your original plan."

The actor nodded his agreement and left, relishing the envious looks he gathered from the other men in the room.

"Sorry for the interruption," Phule said, as if he were responsible for the disruption caused by the singer. "Now then ... back to business. I want you to pass the word through the company that I'm going to need the services of a forger. I repeat, a forger, not a counterfeiter ..."

"Excuse me ... Mr. Beeker ... sir?"

Reluctant to let anything intrude on his rare off-duty time, the butler nonetheless paused at the hail, to find Bombest hastily emerging from behind the front desk.

"It's simply 'Beeker,' sir," he said.

"Yes, of course," the manager replied absently. "I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment?"

"In regards to what, sir?"

"Well"-Bombest glanced around as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers-"I've been going over the reservations-manually, as Mr. Phule suggested-and I'm afraid we're going to need an extra hundred rooms for the opening."

"Why?"

The manager shrugged. "I can only assume computer error. Most of the reservations were entered correctly, but they don't seem to appear on any-"

"I meant why are you bringing this to my attention ... sir?" Beeker said. "I have no authority in these matters. Surely you were provided with a procedure by which you could report any irregularities through normal cha

"I was," the manager admitted, "but ... well, frankly I've been reluctant to speak with Mr. Phule directly. He seems quite preoccupied with the arrangements for the opening, and I hate to interrupt him unless it's important."

"I'm sure he would feel it was important enough to warrant interruption," the butler said. "After all, he felt it was important enough to import you specifically for the task, didn't he?"

"I ... I guess so," Bombest said hesitantly. "I've barely spoken with him since my arrival, though. I didn't expect a brass band, mind you, but my lack of contact has left me feeling that there are higher priorities than my work occupying his mind."

"More likely it's a tribute to his confidence in you, Mr. Bombest," Beeker said easily, long accustomed to soothing the ruffled feathers and bruised feelings which invariably followed in his employer's wake. "He doubtless feels that you are able to carry out your duties with minimal guidance or input from him."

The manager's posture, never sloppy, improved noticeably at these words.

"I never thought of it that way," he said.

"If, however, you still feel uncomfortable dealing directly with my employer," the butler continued smoothly, "might I suggest you speak with one of his officers? Lieutenant Armstrong or Lieutenant Rembrandt? I notice you're wearing one of the company's wrist communicators. I'm sure Mother will be able to put you in touch with them or relay your message if they're unavailable."

Bombest glanced at the communicator on his wrist as if seeing it for the first time, then grimaced slightly.

"I suppose that's the only way to handle it," he said. "You know, Beeker, this is part of the problem." He tapped the communicator with his forefinger. "When Mr. Phule contacted me for this job, I was prepared to work as a hotel manager, but at times I feel more like a secret agent. Between the wrist radios and the intrigue-undercover people I'm not supposed to admit knowing, not saying anything to the casino manager-I keep feeling I've gotten in over my head ... in something I'd normally avoid like the plague."

Beeker allowed himself a small smile.

"If it's any comfort to you, sir, that feeling is not at all uncommon among those employed by Mr. Phule. He has a tendency to get carried away with things, and has the charisma to carry others right along with him. I'm sure you'll do fine once the initial shock has worn off."

"How do you do it?"

"Sir?"

"You're a fairly ordinary guy, not at all like Mr. Phule or the uniformed fanatics he's associating with. How do you do your job?"

"Very well, sir."

"Excuse me?"

The butler shook his head. "Forgive me. It was my effort at a small joke-something a magician once told me when I asked how he did a particular trick, or `effect,' as he called it."

The manager blinked, then flashed a brief smile. "Oh. Yes. I see. Very fu