A Phule and His Money

"This is good," said Rube, unshouldering his heavy pack and putting it on the floor. Dukes made a sound that the translator turned into a murmur of agreement. Brandy wasn't surprised. In his usual thorough research, Phule had satisfied himself that human-style beds would be suitable for Gambolt use. Otherwise, he would have spent whatever was necessary for sleeping arrangements as comfortable to the Gambolts as the best hotel beds were for the human troops in his command. It was Legion policy to give equal accommodations to troops of all races, but in most units that meant equal discomfort. In Phule's Company, it meant equal luxury, from top to bottom.

The smallest Gambolt, Garbo, stood looking around the room without speaking. Finally Garbo said, "Do all three of us have to share this room?"

"Why, is there a problem?" Brandy was taken aback. To the best of her knowledge, the Gambolts did not segregate troops by sex in their own units-Phule had been careful to determine that was the case-and in any case, they attached no social significance to males and females sharing quarters. So there had appeared to be no reason to set aside two suites for the new troops, when one large one was available. Besides, in a twenty-four-hour mission like casino security, it was common for roommates to end up on different schedules, with one needing to sleep while the others were up and active. The layout of the suite, with several separate rooms that could be closed off, took that possibility into account.

"Yes, there is a problem," said Garbo, turning to face her sergeant. "I joined this unit because I wanted to serve with humans, not to be set apart with others of my own kind. And here, at the very start, you are about to put me into quarters with the only others of my kind in your company. Isn't there anyplace else I can be housed?"

Brandy was surprised, but the request was reasonable. It was unusual for Gambolts to serve with anyone not of their own race. So it wasn't really surprising that a Gambolt who'd volunteered for a human outfit didn't want to be housed with her own kind. It was a far cry from being the strangest thing she'd run across in the Legion. In fact, to most Space Legion veterans, it would have been suspicious if there hadn't been something strange about a new batch of recruits...

"All right, I can fix that," Brandy said to the Gambolt. "But first, while we're here-Dukes and Rube, you two have an hour to unpack your things. At 1500 hours you'll report to Sergeant Chocolate Harry at the supply depot to be outfitted. At 1600 hours, you and the other recruits will report to the Grand Ballroom for orientation and duty assignments. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," the Gambolts said again.

"OK. Garbo, let's see if we can find you a room before 1500-I want everybody set up with rooms and duty assignments by then. It may mean you don't have time to get completely settled in until later. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said Garbo, shouldering her pack.

"Good," said Brandy. She thought to herself, They said these Gambolts make ideal soldiers. I wonder what's wrong with them that they ended up in the Omega Mob? She remembered Phule's determination to make his company an example of the Legion's true potential. Maybe these Gambolt recruits were the next step toward making that determination a reality. We'll find out soon enough, she thought, and headed down the corridor, with Garbo close behind.

Tusk-anini was perched on a stool near the entrance of the Fat Chance Casino when two humans in bad suits stepped up to him. Even Tusk-anini, who paid very little attention to human clothing styles, could tell that the suits were bad. Not only cheap and ill-fitting, but unattractive by design. They looked as ugly as the uniforms the Omega Company had worn before Phule's arrival.

"Excuse me, friend, can you direct us to the Fat Chance Casino?" said the taller of the two humans. He wasn't that much taller, but the difference in height was the only marked distinction between them. They had nondescript faces, mousy brown hair in nearly identical unflattering short cuts, and extremely unstylish dark glasses. They also carried identical briefcases, in a sort of grayish dark material that had come out of a vat in some chemical plant. The briefcases were almost the same noncommittal color as the suits.

"You standing in front of Fat Chance," said Tusk-anini, cautiously. While neither of the humans had done anything in particular to alarm him, he had a bad feeling about them. One thing the Volton had learned during his association with humans was that feelings could be trusted. In fact, they sometimes gave you better answers than the most rigorous logical analysis.

The shorter human looked up and noticed the sign and said, "Yes, so we are." Now that he heard the voice, Tusk-anini realized that the shorter one was a female, a fact that the baggy suit and short haircut did much to conceal from the casual glance.

The man spoke again, "Are you a casino employee?"

"Yes, I am," said Tusk-anini-not quite truthfully, for while the legio

"You're just the sophont we need to talk to, then," said the man. "We're trying to gather information on the operation here. We'd like you to answer a few questions."

"Asking anything you want. I answer what I may," said the Volton cautiously. He had begun to wonder whether these two humans were from a competing casino, or from one of the criminal organizations the Legion was here to guard against. His eyes narrowed, giving his warthog-like face an even fiercer expression than normal.

"Maybe I should rephrase that," said the man. He pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open to reveal a holo-ID, which he held up a few inches from Tusk-anini's snout. Above his picture (which miraculously made him look even less attractive than he was in person) were the initials IRS; below it was written Roger Peele, Special Agent. "We're in receipt of information to the effect that your employer is failing to report substantial amounts of income," said Special Agent Peele. "If you impede a lawful investigation, you're guilty of conspiracy to defraud a government agency. That's a serious offense, in case you didn't know it."

Tusk-anini abruptly stood up. This brought him to his full height, nearly seven feet tall, and put his enormous barrel chest nearly at eye level for the two humans. "You ask me betray Captain Jester!" he accused. "Tusk-anini no do that! Not right to betray the captain."

"Easy now, friend-you're looking at this all wrong," said the woman in a calm voice. "We appreciate your loyalty to your commander-that's what makes the military work. But sometimes you have to look beyond that to a higher loyalty. Your captain has to report to his generals, and they report to civilian authorities. The Interstellar Revenue System is part of that civilian authority, a very important part of it. It's your duty to cooperate with us."

"If captain say it my duty, I do it," said Tusk-anini. "He not say it, I not do it. You go away now." He took a step forward. His powerful physique and staring eyes made him a menacing figure. The two IRS agents involuntarily stepped backward.

"Very well," snarled Special Agent Peele. "We have more than one way to find out what we want. And you'd better hope your own nose is clean-because if it's not, you'll be in the same trouble as your captain."

"You call my nose dirty?" roared Tusk-anini, and at that the two IRS agents backed off still another step. "You go away and leave captain alone," he repeated.