Robert Asprin - Phule 2 - Phule's Paradise
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Phule's Paradise by Robert Asprin
Copyright 1992
PROLOGUE
The view from General Blitzkrieg's window was uninspired to say the most,
surveying a cramped parking lot and a blank wall badly in need of repainting
or tearing down. In some ways, however, it typified the status of the Space
Legion, or lack thereof. Perpetually strapped for funding, even the space for
its headquarters was rented, and the area was very low rent indeed. That
Blitzkrieg's office had a window at all was a sign of his lofty standing in
that organization.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The general turned from staring out the window to find an aide poised in
the door of his office.
"Yes?"
"You asked to be notified as soon as Colonel Battleax left on her
vacation," the aide said without formality. Salutes, like views, were optional
in the Legion, and therefore very rare indeed.
"You're sure she's gone? You saw her take off yourself?"
"Well, sir, I saw her shuttle lift off and then return without her. The
ship she had reservations on has left orbit, so I assume that she's on it."
"Good, good," the general said, almost to himself, a rare smile
flickering across his face. "And she'll be on vacation for several months, at
least."
Due to the time necessary for space travel, even aided by faster-than-
light travel, vacations tended to be long, so the aide found nothing unusual
about the length of Battleax's sabbatical, especially considering she had been
accumulating time for several years. The aide was, however, puzzled by the
general's attitude and interest in it. It was surprising that Blitzkrieg, as
one of the three directors of the Space Legion, would take such a concern in
the long-overdue vacation of a lowly colonel.
"She'll certainly be missed," the aide commented, fishing for more
information.
"She'll be missed more by some than others," Blitzkrieg said darkly, his
smile tightening a bit.
"Sir?"
"The colonel is a fine officer and administrator," the general said, "as
fine as any you'd find in the Regular Army. Still, she's human-and a woman at
that-and tends to form attachments to certain individuals and units under her
command It's only natural that she use her position to campaign in their
behalf here at Headquarters, as well as sheltering them when they foul up."
"I suppose so, sir," the aide said, suddenly uneasy about commenting on
the performance of a senior officer.
"Well, that's about to change," the general declared, sinking into the
chair behind his desk. "While she's on vacation most of her duties will be
absorbed by other officers here at Headquarters, but I've set it up so that
one unit in particular will report directly to me in her absence."
"Which unit is that, sir?"
Blitzkrieg's eyes fixed on a spot on the far wall like he was a hungry
toad tracking a fly.
"I'm talking about Captain Jester and that Omega Mob of his."
Suddenly the aide could see the situation clearly.
It was well known around Headquarters that General Blitzkrieg had
recently had his heart set on court-martialing Captain Jester for his actions
upon taking over an Omega company-a company specifically formed to handle
military misfits unsuited for even the Legion's loose standards and
guidelines. Exact details were unknown, but the renegade captain had emerged
from the incident not only unscathed but with a commendation for himself and
his entire unit. Speculation as to how this was accomplished ran high, though
many suspected that it had something to do with the fact that before enlisting
and taking the name "Jester," the captain had been one Willard Phule, one of
the universe's youngest megamillionaires and heir apparent to the vast Phule-
Proof Munitions empire. This latter piece of information became known when
Jester ignored the Legion's tradition of anonymity through pseudonym and
exposed his true identity and origins to the media, thereby focusing
unprecedented public attention on himself, his unit, and the Legion as a
whole. The media loved it, but apparently the general didn't.
"Pass the word to communications," Blitzkrieg said, never changing his
tone or his smile. "I want them to get Captain Jester on the horn for me. I
have a new assignment for him and that ragtag gang of his."
"Yes, sir," the aide snapped, and quickly retreated from the office.
Several things troubled the aide as he headed for the communications
room to carry out the general's order.
First, he had been thinking of requesting a transfer to Jester's company
himself, and had been merely waiting for the right time to submit the
necessary paperwork. As it was, however, it occurred to him that this was not
the proper time for such a move, either from the viewpoint of the general's
mood or from the fact that it looked like he had something unpleasant in store
for that unit and its commander.
Second, he wondered if Captain Jester was aware of the general's
animosity toward him, and even if he was, if he would be able to handle or
avoid whatever unpleasantness was currently being aimed at him.
Finally, something occurred to the aide that had apparently escaped the
general's mind-that if Omega Mob was reporting directly to the general in
Colonel Battleax's absence, then ultimately Blitzkrieg would be responsible
for whatever they did on this new assignment they were being given.
All in all, the aide decided that the best place to be for a while would
be on the sidelines as an observer and not anywhere near the actual action
and/or repercussions.
CHAPTER ONE
Journal # 171
Contrary to whatever impression might have been created by the first volume of
these notes, butlers, even those seasoned by years of experience such as
myself, are neither omnipresent nor all-knowing.
To support this assertion, I will acknowledge that I was not present
when the call came in from Space Legion Headquarters signaling the start of a
new chapter in my employer's career with that organization. In fact, I was not
even at "The Club," which is how his current charges refer to the remodeled
compound. Rather, it being my day off, I was in the settlement, or, as the
Legionnaires call it, "townside." Even in my wildest flights of ego, however,
I cannot claim that my absence had any bearing on the timing of the call,
Headquarters being unaware of my exact role in relation to my employer, and
totally ignorant of my work schedule. It was, at best, an unfortunate
happenstance.
Of course, merely being absent is no excuse for someone of my position
to lose track of his gentleman. I am the only civilian privileged to wear one
of the wrist communicators which have become the trademark of the company
under my employer's command, and have gone to great lengths to establish a
close rapport with the terminally shy Legionnaire (known affectionately to one
and all as "Mother") who oversees all communications. Consequently I was
alerted to the call's existence as soon as it was patched through.
Needless to say, I brought my off-duty pastimes to an immediate halt and
returned to the club with all haste, only to find the company in total
turmoil.
The Legionnaires under the command of Captain Jester, known more widely
courtesy of his media exposure as Willard Phule, had become passable, and in
some cases excellent, marksmen. This was in no small way due to the fact that
the design of the country-club-like barracks centered around a wet
bar/swimming pool/firing range, which was the troop's favorite hangout during
off-duty hours. As they rarely stood duty more than once a week, this meant
considerable time was spent lounging about alternately sipping drinks, dipping
in the pool, and pumping rounds downrange for practice, fun, or friendly
wagers.
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 Legionnaires willing to consider the possibility seriously.
While the company was now a cohesive unit, and the individuals within it
genuinely cared for each other, there was no doubt in any of their minds that
their captain was the one who first brought them together and they feared for
the repercussions if he were lost to them.
"Do you really think they'll send the captain to another unit?" one of
the Legionnaires fretted, idly splintering chips off his now-empty plastic
glass.
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 Legionnaire who had asked the question shot a glance at Rembrandt
and Armstrong, the company's two lieutenants, but those notables were
engrossed in a conversation of their own at the far end of the pool, so he
simply shrugged and returned to his original discussion.
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 Legionnaires in the company, not to mention
one of the most perceptive. Still, when she was reminded of that fact, as she
was now, she had a healthy respect for his observations.
"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 channels, not from Becker! Now, back off and let the man do his
job!"
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 Legionnaires. When she spoke, she did it without
moving her lips or looking directly at Becker.
"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 Legionnaires, that of entering the commander's
private quarters without being specifically summoned, and he freely exercised
that privilege now, pausing only briefly after knocking before opening the
door.
"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.
"Is there a problem, sir?" Becker prompted, pointedly closing the door
behind him.
"You might say that. I just got a call from Headquarters giving us a new
assignment, and-"
"Is that a new assignment for the entire company, or just for the two of
us?" the butler interrupted.
"What? Oh. For the entire company. Why?"
"You might want to announce that to your command as soon as possible,
sir. They seemed quite anxious when I passed though the pool area just now."
"I don't know," Phule said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I was
planning to wait until I had a better fix on this new assignment before
announcing it. It's always nice to have the information clear yourself before
opening the door to questions and answers."
"If you'll forgive my saying so, sir, I really think you should say
something to quiet their minds. They're aware that a call has come in from
Headquarters, and many of them are concerned that you are being removed from
the command of this unit."
"I see. Well, I'll put a stop to that right now."
As he spoke, Phule raised his wrist communicator to his mouth and
pressed a button.
"Mother?"
"Yes, Captain," came the immediate response without any of that
Legionnaire's usual banter.
"Is everyone in range for a general broadcast?"
"That's a big affirmative. Truth to tell, they're all hangin' so close
you could probably just raise your voice and save the batteries."
A brief smile flitted across Phule's face.
"I think I'll follow normal procedure, anyway ... just for practice.
Give me a broadcast channel."
"You got it, Big Daddy. We're all ears."
Without thinking, Phule dropped into a deeper, formal voice as he began
his announcement.
"If I could have your attention for a moment ... I have been told that
some of you are worried about the recent call from Legion Headquarters. All I
can tell you at the moment is that we are being reassigned. I repeat, we are
being reassigned ... That's the entire unit. Details will be provided at a
formal briefing tonight at twenty hundred hours. Officers, please stand by.
Your presence will soon be required for a strategy session. That is all."
He clicked off his com unit and leaned back, winking at his butler.
"There, I think that should do it."
"Quite. Thank you, sir."
"Okay, now that that's taken care of, I have something I want you to
see."
Phule waved Beeker toward a chair as he rose and fiddled with the holo
unit which occupied the better part of one wall of his quarters. He had
purchased and installed this unit as a supplement to the one issued the
company specifically to ease the reception of calls from Headquarters. Of
course, unlike the issued model, this one also had a record and playback
capacity.
"This is a replay of the call I just received," he said. "I want to know
what you think of it."
As he spoke, the image of General Blitzkrieg materialized in the room,
seated at his desk, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped in front
of him.
"Good morning, Captain Jester." The image smiled. "Sorry to wake you so
early."
"Actually," came Phule's phantom voice, "it's afternoon here, sir."
While interstellar communications were now commonplace, the problem of
coordinating days, much less hours, between widely separated settlements still
remained.
"Whatever." The general shrugged. "I have some good news for you,
Captain. You and your company are being reassigned to a new duty. Orders are
being cut, which will be sent to you along with the detailed briefing
material, but I thought I should call you personally to let you know what's
going on."
"That's good of you, sir. What is the new assignment?"
"It's a really sweet job." The general smiled. "Basic security guard
work, actually. The nice part is that you'll be guarding the Fat Chance-the
newest, biggest casino on Lorelei. Easy duty in paradise, if you ask me. What
do you say to that?"
"My first reaction would have to be `Why us?' ... sir."
The general's smile tightened a little.
"Mostly because the owner specifically requested you and your outfit,
Captain. I guess all that showboating you've been doing for the media is
finally paying dividends."
"What I meant, sir, was why turn to the Space Legion at all? Our fees
are significantly higher than any number of normal uniformed security
services. Who is the owner, anyway?"
"I have it right here," the general said, referring to a sheet of paper
on the desk before him. "Yes. Here it is. The contracting party is Gunther
Rafael."
"I find that hard to believe."
"What was that, Captain?"
"There are two things wrong with that, General," Phule said hurriedly.
"First of all, while I've never met Mr. Rafael, I'm familiar with his
reputation, and he's always been dead set against gambling of any form.
Consequently it's hard for me to believe that he owns a casino."
"I see." The general frowned. "And the other?"
"The other thing is that Gunther Rafael died nearly a year ago."
"He did?" Blitzkrieg was scowling now, examining the paper again. "Ah!
Here's the problem. My mistake, Captain. It's Gunther Rafael, Junior, that's
hiring you. Apparently the son doesn't share his father's dislike of gambling.
Does that answer your question?"
"Not my first question: Why us?"
"Maybe he thinks hiring you will generate some publicity. You'll have to
ask Mr. Rafael that," the general said. "But let me warn you, Captain, it's
not the Legion policy to try to discourage clients from hiring us. Get my
drift?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. As I said, your orders will be forthcoming. Another Legion
company has been dispatched to take over your current assignment. You and your
company are to leave for Lorelei as soon as they arrive. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Enjoy your new assignment, Captain Jester. Blitzkrieg out."
Phule turned off the holo unit and sank into a chair.
"All right, Beeker," he said. "What's wrong with this picture?"
The butler pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"Well," he said, "aside from the obvious questions raised by your
getting your assignment directly from General Blitzkrieg as opposed to Colonel
Battleax, who is your immediate superior in the so-called chain of command, I
guess my feelings could be summed up in one question: Why is this man
smiling?"
The commander made little beckoning circles with his hand.
"Elaborate."
"It has been my distinct impression," the butler continued, "that the
general holds you in something less than highest esteem. In fact, it would be
safe to say that he would rather chew ground glass than give you the time of
day, much less do you a favor. I therefore think it would be safe to assume
that if he is taking the time to inform you personally of your new assignment,
and is happy about doing it, the assignment is in all probability much less
desirable than he is making it out to be."
"Check." Phule nodded. "A bit long-winded, perhaps, but dead on the
money with my own assessment."
"You did ask me to elaborate, sir," Beeker said, a little stung by the
"long-winded" accusation.
"The problem is," the commander continued as if his butler hadn't
spoken, "how to find out what the trap is before we step in it."
"If I might say so, sir, I believe the general himself has given you the
answer to that problem."
"How's that?"
"You could check the recording again, but as I recall, he specifically
instructed you to obtain additional information on the assignment directly
from the casino owner."
"He did, didn't he?" Phule smiled, then raised his wrist communicator
once more.
"Mother?"
"Yes, O Exalted One?"
"Put a call through for me. I want to speak with Gunther Rafael, Junior
... at the Fat Chance Casino on Lorelei."
The call took nearly an hour to put through, though most of that time seemed
to be spent trying to locate the person who was to receive it. When Gunther
Rafael finally did take the call, the image which formed before Phule was less
than encouraging.
What the holo-projection showed was an acned youth who didn't look old
enough to be admitted to a casino, much less own one.
"Mr. Phule?" the image said, peering at a point slightly to the left of
where Phule was standing. "Hi. Gunther Rafael here. Gee, I'm really glad you
called ... I've been waiting to hear from you for a long time now."
"You have?" Phule was a little taken aback at this.
"Well, yeah. I sent in my request for your services nearly a month ago,
and the Space Legion accepted it almost immediately."
From the corner of his eye, Phule saw Beeker lean back in his chair and
stare at the ceiling, and knew the time lapse between the acceptance of the
contract and their notification of its existence wasn't lost on the butler.
"I see," the Legionnaire said. "Well, I only received the assignment
recently, and was hoping you could provide me with a few more details so I
could brief my troops before we arrive."
The youth frowned. "It's not that hard to understand. I thought I made
it clear in my request. I want you to keep those scumbags from taking over my
casino, and I don't care if you have to gun every one of them down to do it!"
Beeker was suddenly sitting upright in his chair, staring at the image
in disbelief. Of course, the way the cameras were situated, the only image
being sent was that of Phule, who held up his hand in a gesture of restraint.
"Mr. Rafael ..." he began.
"Please, make it 'Gunther,'" the youth interrupted with a quick smile.
"Very well"-Phule nodded-"and in return, please call me 'Jester.'"
"Jester? But aren't you-"
"It's my name within the Legion," Phule explained with a shrug. "Anyway
... Gunther ... the information channels within the Legion can be slow and
often distort the details of the original request, which is why I'm calling
you directly. To be sure we're both on the same wavelength, could you briefly
explain the assignment to me ... as if I were hearing it for the first time?"
"Well, since Dad died, I've been liquidating his holdings so I could
finally try to make my dream come true: to own and run the biggest and best
hotel and casino on Lorelei-"
"Have you ever owned or worked in a casino before?" Phule interrupted.
"No ... but I know it can be done! I can offer better odds than any
other casino on Lorelei and still turn a profit. I worked it all out on paper
in college. What's more, I can attract the bulk of the tourists if they know
they're getting the best odds and that the games are straight." Gunther's eyes
were alight with enthusiasm.
Phule, on the other hand, was unmoved.
"But you've never actually worked in a casino before."
"No, I haven't," the youth admitted with a grimace. "That's why I've
hired an experienced casino manager, Huey Martin, to run things for me while I
learn."
"I see," the Legionnaire said, making a mental note of the name. "Go
on."
"Well, a while back I learned that there was a chance that criminals
were going to try to take over my place once it was open, and I didn't know
what to do. The police here on Lorelei may be great for keeping the muggers
away from the tourists, but they aren't up to handling anything like this!
Then I saw the reports on how you managed to stop an alien invasion with just
a handful of troops, and figured if you could do that, you should be able to
stop common crooks from taking over my casino."
"So that's the assignment," Phule said slowly, steadfastly ignoring
Beeker, who was now slumped in his chair, his arms folded, one hand over his
eyes. "To guard your casino against a hostile takeover by a gang of
criminals."
"Sure." Gunther beamed. "I figure with your uniformed troops standing in
full view, the customers will feel safer, and those scumbags will think twice
before they try any rough stuff."
"All right ... there are several things I'm going to need, Gunther, and
I'd appreciate it if you could transmit them to me here on Haskin's Planet as
soon as possible. I'm going to want copies of the floor plans and blueprints
for the hotel-particularly the casino area-showing electrical and security
systems. I also want to see copies of all your personnel files on all
employees, starting with Huey Martin's, and ... did you say you weren't open
yet?"
"Well, parts of the casino are open, but I'm doing a lot of remodeling.
There's going to be a big grand opening to launch the new operation."
"We can't leave our current assignment until our replacements arrive,"
Phule said, almost to himself, "then there's time in transit, and ... Gunther,
can you hold your grand opening until at least a week after we arrive?"
"I ... guess so. Why do you want my personnel records?"
"Let's just say I like to have some idea of who's at our backs while
we're standing guard ... Oh, and speaking of personnel, have you made
arrangements for housing my troops?"
"Sure. I was going to have them stay at one of the small hotels down the
Strip."
"Cancel that. I want them to have rooms at the Fat Chance. A hundred
rooms and a penthouse."
"But rooms at the Fat Chance go for-"
"They're supposed to be guarding your hotel and casino," Phule said
pointedly. "They can't do that if they're at another location when trouble
hits, can they?"
"I ... guess not. All right. I suppose with over a thousand rooms I can
spare a hundred. Is that all?"
Phule nodded. "For the moment. I'll probably be getting back to you soon
with some additional requests, but that'll give me a starting point."
"Okay. I'll tell you, Mr. Jester, I'll sleep a lot easier now knowing
you're on the job."
The youth's image faded as the connection was broken.
For several moments, Phule and Beeker stared silently at the place in
the room it had occupied. Finally the commander cleared his throat.
"How in the world did someone that ignorant and naive get to be a
multimillionaire?"
"Not to belabor the obvious, sir," Becker said softly, "I believe he
inherited it."
Phule wrinkled his nose in disgust. While he had borrowed seed money
from his munitions-baron father, he had long since paid it all back, with
interest, and considered his wealth to be self-made. As such, he had little
tolerance for those who inherited their wealth, and none at all for those who
were foolish with what money they had.
"Oh well," he said, "it takes all kinds ... I guess. At least now we
know what we're up against with this assignment."
"A know-nothing kid trying to run a casino on book theories and hired
expertise," Beeker recited grimly. "Not exactly the cushy guard duty in
paradise that General Blitzkrieg was trying to paint it as, is it, sir? Oh yes
... and let us not forget the possibility of an attempted criminal takeover."
"You know, that's the part that bothers me the most." The commander
scowled. "Check me on this, Beek ... you stay more abreast of current events
than I do. These days, when crime, organized or otherwise, wants to take over
a business, do they do it with guns blazing?"
The butler made a soft but rude noise before answering.
"Not to my knowledge, sir. It's my understanding that the usual tactic
is to force them into financial difficulty, then buy them out cheap-or, at
least, a controlling interest."
Phule nodded. "That's what I thought. More like a hostile stock
takeover. Well, I've handled those before."
The butler looked at him sharply.
"If I might point out, sir, the methods the criminal element utilizes to
put financial pressure on a business are well outside civilized law. I would
suggest it would be prudent not to underestimate your opponents."
"I appreciate the advice, Beeker," Phule said, "but for your information
the crowd I'm accustomed to playing with has little regard for civilized law.
I have not succeeded in the past by underestimating an opponent ... nor by
underestimating myself."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Enough of that," the commander said. "It's time we got to work. I hope
your fingers are rested, Beek, 'cause there's a bit of non-Legion business I
want you to take care of for me. We're going to be doing some hiring, and I'd
like you to do the initial screening and have your recommendations on my desk
by noon tomorrow."
"Very well, sir." The butler was not fazed by the sudden change in mood
and topic, nor by the request. The two men had worked together for a long
time. "And our requirements are ... ?"
"First, I need a solid casino security man-someone with experience and
unquestionable references. Top dollar for the right man. Also, I want at least
half a dozen instructors who can teach the table games. Check with the
dealer's schools-buy one if you have to-but I need them all here. Charter a
ship, too, before our replacements arrive. Offer them all a half year's wages,
but we'll only need them from the hiring date until our transport hits the
last big port before Lorelei ...What would that be?"
"Port Lowe, sir."
"Right. Next ..." Phule allowed himself a small smile. "This may be a
little out of the ordinary for you, Beek, but I need to set up a cattle call."
"Sir?"
"An audition. Find out what our first stop is after we leave here, then
use the computer to pull up data on available actors and actresses at that
location-bit players only. We don't need any recognizable faces."
"Very well, sir. May I ask what you'll be doing in the meantime ... in
case I need to confer with you on any of this?"
"Me?" The commander smiled. "I'll be doing my homework ... seeing what I
can learn about organized crime. I think I'll drop into the settlement and pay
a visit to our old friend Chief Goetz."
"That won't be necessary, sir."
"Excuse me, Beek?"
"I believe you'll find Chief Goetz at poolside here at The Club. He gave
me a lift back from the settlement, and he rarely passes on the opportunity to
mix with your troops."
"You got the chief of police to play taxi driver for you?" Phule seemed
genuinely impressed.
"Actually, sir, he offered. I was at his home at the time."
"His home?"
"Yes, sir. I've been tutoring his son in algebra on my days off."
The commander laughed and shook his head.
"Beeker," he said, "what would I do without you?"
The butler smiled. "I'm sure I don't know, sir."
CHAPTER TWO
Journal #173
As I have both noted and chronicled before, though he is more than effective
on an overall basis, my employer is far from infallible. Not only do
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Phule'sParadisebyRobertAsprinCopyright1992PROLOGUETheviewfromGeneralBlitzkrieg'swindowwasuninspiredtosaythemost,surveyingacrampedparkinglotandablankwallbadlyinneedofrepaintingortearingdown.Insomeways,however,ittypifiedthestatusoftheSpaceLegion,orlackthereof.Perpetuallystrappedforfunding,eventhespace...
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