Phule's Errand

“There’s your ship,” said Sodden, pointing in the general direction of the gate. “Better get on board…”

“I heard the a

“Willard Phule! Or should I say, Captain Jester! What a surprise to see you!” came a chirpy voice from just behind him. Surprised, Phule turned his head, a look of half recognition already on his face. Almost involuntarily, his grip on Sodden’s shirt loosened.

“Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty,” said Phule, recognizing one of his mother’s comrades-in-arms from the charity gala circuit. “What a surprise…”

“Equally, I’m sure,” said the woman. “I take it you’re here on Legion duty, helping put down those dreadful rioters. It’s such a reassurance to know that the right kind of people are doing their part to keep the galaxy a safe place to travel.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule, as noncommittally as he could manage. “I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced…”

“Fortunately, only slightly,” said Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty, putting on her most courageous expression. “My hoverlimo was forced to take an alternate route out to the spaceport to avoid the rioters. I saw some of the most appalling neighborhoods-one would think there’d be a better class of groundskeepers on this world, of all worlds. But my business here is finished, thank Ghu. It’ll be such a relief to get home to poor Biffy; the silly boy never knows what to do with himself when I’m away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Phule again. He’d learned long since that it was the safest thing one could say to women of a certain social class. “Please give Mr. Biffwycke my regards.”

“Thank you, Wilfred-I mean, Captain” Mrs. Biffwycke-Snerty beamed. “I certainly will, and please give your dear mama mine.” She leaned forward and kissed the air a couple of inches from his cheek, then turned and went her way.

And of course, when Phule turned to look for Perry Sodden, there was nothing at all to be seen of the detective.

Chocolate Harry carefully avoided mentioning to any of the bettors in his golf pool that both Lieutenant Armstrong and the “Captain Jester” robot were playing to let General Blitzkrieg win. (Nobody was quite sure what Flight Left-enant Qual was playing for.) Harry expected the members of Omega Company to back their own officers, whether from loyalty or because of apparently favorable odds. And in fact, to date there was almost nobody betting on the genera]-which had allowed Harry to pocket a substantial profit at the end of every single day of the pool.

Harry had also made every effort to involve the anxious bettors in the action taking place out on the golf course. As much as General Blitzkrieg might have appreciated the idea of an audience raptly following his every stroke on the course, he (and his adjutant, Major Sparrowhawk) would have been quick to seize on any evidence that the legio

Considering how new the game was to everyone except Armstrong and the general, it had caught on amazingly. On any given day, every off-duty legio

The one thing Harry hadn’t quite counted on came knocking on the door to Supply one afternoon, just as the golfers had teed up for their seventh hole. For once Blitzkrieg appeared to have figured out what it took to keep his shots in the center of the fairway. For his part, Flight Leftenant Qual was having unca

“Trouble?” growled Chocolate Harry. “What kind of trouble?” In answer, Double-X nodded toward the entrance to the Supply depot. There, to Harry’s horror, stood Major Sparrowhawk, clipboard in hand and a determined expression on her face. “Shit,” said Harry, in a low but sincere voice. “Guess I better take care of this. Be ready to close things down if I give the signal.”

“Right on, Sarge,” said Double-X. He glanced nervously first at the woman at the entrance, then at the small but enthusiastic group of bettors crowded around the tri-vee display. After a moment, he turned back, and asked, “Uh, what’s the signal?” But by then, Chocolate Harry had already moved to intercept Major Sparrowhawk.

Chocolate Harry had long since perfected a number of techniques for covering his tracks. When bluster and misdirection failed, he could usually fall back on misunderstanding and flat denial. And when all else failed, feigned ignorance was almost always good enough to get him through a crisis. From the look on the major’s face, he was likely to need his entire repertoire today. “Hey, Major, good to see you,” he began, in what he hoped was a convincingly hearty tone. “Need some supplies today?”

“Cut the crap, Sergeant,” said Major Sparrowhawk. “You’re making book on the general’s golf game, which is against all regulations. And if I couldn’t find a few dozen other violations of the Uniform Space Legion Code just by walking around in here for a few minutes, I’m a Centauran tree slug.”

“Maybe you could,” said Harry. “What’re you go

“Very fu

“Maybe,” said Harry again, somewhat less cockily. Then, his curiosity aroused, he asked, “So what’s the deal, then? You got a proposition for me, Major?”

Sparrowhawk looked around the Supply shack. Up front, the off-duty bettors were crowded around the screen, waiting to see the foursome hit their tee shots. Double-X was staring at Harry with obvious anxiety. “Too many people in here,” she said, after a moment. “Let’s go somewhere quiet to talk.”

“OK,” said Harry. He looked around. “Your place or mine?”

“Watch it,” said Sparrowhawk, with an expression that had been known to make senior officers cringe. Then, after a moment, she said, “I know exactly the place. I’ll meet you in the captain’s office in ten minutes.”

“The-what?” said Chocolate Harry.

“Captain Jester’s not there,” said Sparrowhawk, waving at the tri-vee screen. “He’s playing golf. So’s my boss, and so is Lieutenant Armstrong. And I happen to know that Lieutenant Rembrandt’s down in Comm Central. So who are you worried about, Sergeant-more than me, that is?”