Phules Paradise

"I know. The doctor told me, except ..." The actress turned her face toward the commander. "You know, it's fu

Phule's expression tightened slightly.

"I know," he said. "I was told the same thing. We'll see about that. You just get some rest and concentrate on getting better and don't worry about where the money is coming from. I'll take care of dealing with Mrs. Pruet."

He started to ease toward the door.

"In the meantime," he continued, forcing a lighter tone into his voice, "be sure to let me know if there's anything I can do."

"Well ... there is one thing, Captain."

"What's that?"

"When you talk to the surgeon ... Is there any chance he could do a little work on my nose at the same time? I've always thought it was too big, and since he'll be operating, anyway ..." She let her voice trail off.

"Consider it done." Phule smiled, more confident now that Tiffany hadn't been merely putting on an act for his benefit. "I'll be sure he confers with you on what the final result should be, and you can make any adjustments you want."

"Thanks, Captain," she said. "I suppose it sounds silly, but-"

"Excuse me, Captain?"

They looked around to find Doc's son standing in the doorway to the room.

Tiffany waved. "Hiya, kid! Welcome to the horror show."

"Hello, Tiffany."

"Hi, Junior," Phule said. "Your father's right down the hall. He was awake a little while ago when I talked to him."

"I know, Captain," the youth said. "I've already been to see him, thanks: You're the one I was looking for."

"Oh?" The commander glanced quickly at Tiffany. "I was just finishing here, if you'd like to step into the hall."

"No, here is fine. In fact, I want Tiffany to hear this, too."

"Okay. What's on your mind?"

"Well ... the others asked me to talk with you, since I was coming over anyway to visit Dad." The youth seemed suddenly uneasy. "What it is, is ... well, we all appreciate what you told us, about paying off our contracts and sending us back to Jewell, but-"

"What? Wait a minute!" Tiffany broke in. "You didn't tell me anything about this, Captain."

"It didn't concern you," the commander said tersely. "Not for a while, anyway. You were saying, Junior?"

"Well, sir," the youth continued, squaring his shoulders, "we'd like you to reconsider your decision. We want to stay on until this thing is finished. As far as we're concerned, nothing has changed from the original agreement."

"Nothing?" Phule scowled. "That isn't how I'd describe what's happened to your father and Tiffany."

"I can't speak for Tiffany," the youth said. "But my father's had broken bones before. It goes with the job. As for the rest of us, we were warned of the possible danger involved in this deal, and we accepted it. Just because it's become a reality hasn't changed the terms of our contract. We're all ready to go on working for you if you'll let us."

"All of you?"

"Well, we haven't had a chance to check with Tiffany," the boy admitted. "That's why I wanted to discuss this in front of her."

"You can add my vote to that, kid," the actress said firmly. "It looks like I'll be stuck here for a while, anyway, but ..."

She pulled herself up into a sitting position, hugging her knees to steady herself. "Let me tell you something, Mister Phule. You may be some kind of hotshot in the business world, or even the military, but it seems you have a lot to learn about show business."

"I guess I do," the commander said, shaking his head slightly. "Would either of you care to enlighten me?"

Tiffany gave out an unladylike snort.

"It appears you have the common misconception that entertainers are hothouse flowers that have to be babied and protected. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Our profession has never really been socially acceptable, and anyone who makes a living at it has had to put up with physical and mental abuse as a norm, not as an exception. You may think of the theater as being sophisticated and artsy, but our roots are in traveling troupes that were closer to carnivals and snake-oil shows than any black-tie opening night."

"We're used to butting heads with the locals," Doc's son supplied calmly. "It's almost like we're gypsies, and being hassled or exploited-or blamed for whatever goes wrong in the near vicinity-gets to be expected after a while. Usually we have to knuckle under and go along with things or risk being run out of town. This time, though, we've got the forces of authority on our side for a change. Heck, we are the forces of authority."

"What the kid's trying to say, Captain," the actress added, "is that we may be temperamental and sometimes quit a job in a huff, but nobody runs us off a stage ... except maybe the director or stage manager. In this case, that's you. Now, if you tell us that we're not performing up to snuff or that you have to make some budget cuts, that's one thing. But don't tell us we're being pulled from the cast for our own good. You hired us because we're all pros ... `real troopers' as the phrase goes. These yokels can't even imagine a situation bad enough to close us down if you say it's all right to keep working."

"The show must go on, eh?" Phule smiled wryly.

"That's about it," the youth said.

"All right." The commander sighed, reaching a decision. "Pass the word that any of the actors who want to stay on, can. Oh, and son ... ?"

"Yes, sir?"

"There's a tradition in the Space Legion that lets a recruit choose his own name when he signs on, and suddenly I don't feel comfortable thinking of you as `Junior.' Is there anything else you'd like to be called?"

The youth's face split in a sudden smile.

"Well, sir," he said, "I think I'll take my cue from the lovely lady here. Why don't you just call me `Trooper'?"

"Consider it done," Phule said. "Pass the word on that as well, and be sure to give everyone my personal thanks."

"Thank you, sir!"

The youth drew himself up and gave a snappy salute.

"Thank you, Trooper," the commander corrected with a smile, returning the salute.

"That was nice, Captain," the actress said after the youth had departed. "Would it be a horrible imposition to ask if I could give you a kiss before you left?"

"Tiffany," Phule said with mock solemnity, "it would be a pleasure."

The phone rang on the bedside table.

"Damn!" the actress snarled, then caught herself and smiled again. "Don't go away, Captain. I'm going to hold you to that kiss."

"I'll be right here," the commander promised.

The phone rang again, and the actress reached for it.

"Hello? ... Who? ... Oh ... No, I'm fine, thank you. It's nice of you to ask."

Catching Phule's eye, she covered the phone's mouthpiece with one hand while silently mouthing a name.

Maxine Pruet.

The commander's face hardened, and he held out his hand for the phone.

"Mrs. Pruet?" he said. "Captain Jester here."

"Good evening, Captain." Max's voice came after only the slightest pause. "I was going to call you next, but I should have known you would be there."

"Yes ... Well, I just wanted to tell you that while we appreciate the gesture of your offering to cover the medical costs, they're being paid by the Space Legion. We take care of our own."

"I'm aware of that, Captain ... now more than before, I'm afraid."

"Excuse me?"

"I was going to extend my personal apologies for what happened tonight, as well as my assurances that it was not done at my orders. It seems, however, my apologies would have been a bit premature ... all things considered."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Pruet, but I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come now, Captain. I'm sure neither of us believes in coincidence. Do you really expect me to accept that it was sheer chance that Mr. Stilman was brutally beaten so soon after his attack on your members?"