The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set
Page 81
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Inside, the bartender was dressed in camouflage, and the menu was full of fruity concoctions served in glasses shaped like voonga-nut shells. The piped-in music was heavy on percussion. A few other customers, off-planet tourists in newly purchased straw hats, sat at other tables, chattering brightly. Neither Phule nor the general was in the mood for small talk, but the ambassador kept up a well-practiced line of easy banter until the drinks came. Then, after a ritual sip of his Planter’s Punch, he folded his hands and leaned forward. “Now, gentlemen, the real reason I’m here has to do with the Zenobians.”
“The Zenobians?” General Blitzkrieg’s puzzlement was obvious.
“Do you mean Flight Leftenant Qual?” said Phule, and he was suddenly even more apprehensive than he’d been when the general was chewing him out.
“Right-o,” said Ambassador Gottesman. “As you know, Qual has been observing your unit as part of his government’s decision-making process whether or not to ally with the Federation. Naturally, he’s been sending back regular reports all along.”
“He has?” said Phule. “Oh, of course he has—it only makes sense, but he’s been such a part of the company that I didn’t think of trying to intercept them.”
“I’m not surprised,” sneered Blitzkrieg. “This is typical of your slapdash methods.”
“He wouldn’t have had much luck at it anyway, old fellow,” said the ambassador. “Qual was using some ultrasecret comm equipment their military has developed. I don’t understand how it works—of course, that’s not my bailiwick—but our tech boys have been on top of it since the beginning. Anyway, we’ve been able to monitor his messages all along.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Phule, looking from the general to the Ambassador, and back again, “At least, I hope it’s good …”
“Well, as you know, Qual came here to make a detailed study of our tactics and ethics. Apparently, he’s learned a great deal about both by watching your company.”
“I knew it!” said Blitzkrieg, slapping his hand on the table-top. “You’ve delivered us into the hands of the enemy, Captain! The lizards have stolen all our secrets. I knew you were the kind who’d do anything for a few dollars, but selling out your own species … There’ll be a court-martial on this, I guarantee you, and this time you won’t get off with a slap on the wrist.”
“General, you’re off-target,” said the Ambassador, tiredly. “Qual confessed that he found the company’s tactics utterly baffling—he said several times that it would be suicide to fight a race so unpredictable.”
“Really?” said the general, sniffing. “Well, perhaps Jester’s security breach may not cost us as much as it might have. But I can’t exonerate him on that count. These things have a way of changing, once the enemy’s had a chance to absorb their stolen knowledge.”
“I know the historical precedents, General,” said Ambassador Gottesman, swirling the artificial voonga-nut shell holding his drink. “But you haven’t heard the whole story yet. Flight Leftenant Qual’s comments on our ethics were even more telling. He told his people that our race is utterly unprincipled, except for loyalty to our friends. He evidently considers this the best possible reason to forge an alliance with us. In fact, we received a formal proposal to that effect just before I was dispatched here. So, I think we have the captain to thank for making the alliance possible.”
“To thank?” The general’s jaw dropped like a lead weight. “Are you telling me …”
“I’m pointing out that the captain has done a good deal to forward our concerns at State—both here on Landoor and in the Zenobian alliance. Some important allies might take it the wrong way if the captain’s broad interpretation of his orders were taken as grounds for punishing him, especially in view of how things have turned out. State doesn’t like to meddle in the Legion’s business, but a word to the wise …”
“Ambassador, I’m old enough to know better than to spit into the wind,” said Blitzkrieg. He picked up his gin and tonic and drained it in a gulp. Then he stood and said, “Since State intends to stick an oar in, we’ll let the violations of orders slide—this time. But it would be in the captain’s best interests to learn to do things the Legion way. Ambassador, thank you for the drink.”
“You’re welcome, General,” said Ambassador Gottesman genially. “The Legion will profit by this in the long run.”
Phule watched the general go out the door—a beaded curtain that concealed a low-level force field that kept the cool air inside from escaping—then turned to the ambassador. “Sir, I don’t know how to thank you. If there’s anything I can do …”
The ambassador smiled. “Captain, State will take its quid pro quo sooner than you think. In fact …”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Phule and the ambassador looked up to see two humans dressed in identical bad suits: the IRS agents, Peele and Hull. “Why, what a surprise to see you here,” Phule said, not meaning a syllable of it. “Somehow, I didn’t expect to see you here in New Atlantis Park. I hope you’re enjoying yourselves …”
“Not in the least, Mr. Phule,” said Agent Peele, with no trace of humor. “We had been at the park office on business—looking for you, as a matter of fact—and were on our way out when we ran into your superior, General Blitzkrieg. We inquired as to your whereabouts, and he directed us here.”
“A stroke of luck,” said the ambassador. “Will you have a seat and join us in a drink?”
“You know, I think for once I will,” said Special Agent Hull, pulling back a chair and plopping herself into it. Peele’s mouth fell open; then, shrugging, he pulled back another chair and joined his partner. The ambassador signaled the waiter, and after they’d ordered drinks—unsweetened iced tea for Peele, and a tequila and tonic for Hull—Phule sat back and waited to hear what the IRS agents had to say.
Peele looked at the ambassador, then shrugged and said, “It’s not customary to talk business in front of a third party, but I suppose this time there’s no reason not to. Mr. Phule, I’m disappointed in what we’ve learned, and there’s no two ways about it. You’ve set up your affairs at the Fat Chance Casino so as to minimize your personal profits, and we can’t find any irregular practices at all. This is anomalous.”
“Not at all,” said Phule. “It’s simply good business. My butler set up the programs himself.”
“Yes, there’s a sharp character,” said Hull, staring into her drink. “We had no luck at all dealing with him. You’d think he’d written the regulations himself, with your personal benefit in view. Every time we thought we’d spotted a few million, he’d find a way to make it vanish. I wish we had somebody like that on our team, to tell you the truth.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad you don’t,” said Phule. “So does this mean I don’t owe you anything, after all?”
“Worse than that,” said Peele, gloomily. “That rascal of a butler found a loophole giving double deductions for investment in undeveloped worlds, for which of course you are eligible.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Phule, suddenly sitting up straighter.
“To you, perhaps,” said Peele. “But it goes on. As you may know, Mr. Phule, when you travelled here, by a peculiarity of hyperspace, you arrived on Landoor before you left Lorelei. Your butler discovered a precedent that allows you to apply the deductions to last quarter’s income despite the fact that you didn’t loan out the money until after you arrived here.”
Peele slumped in his chair, glaring across the table for a moment. At last he said, “Mr. Phule, unless we can find an error in your butler’s figures, I am afraid that we owe you a damned refund.”
Chapter Eighteen
After the IRS agents left Joe’s Jungle Juice, Ambassador Gottesman took Phule back to the park offices, where a rollicking party had broken out to celebrate the opening. Le Duc Taep was playing bartender, pouring chilled Aldebaran champagne for all.
There was a cheer when Phule c
ame through the door, and Le Duc Taep handed him a water glass full of champagne—they had run out of proper flutes early in the festivities. “Speech, speech!” shouted Rev, and the legionnaires took up the chant until Phule mounted a chair and raised his hand for silence.
“I’m going to make this short, because there isn’t very much to say, and I’m sure you’d all rather be drinking than listening to speeches,” he said. This brought another cheer.
“Ambassador Gottesman tells me that both New Atlantis Park and Landoor Park have been doing spectacular business all day long,” he continued. “As far as I’m concerned, this means we’ve accomplished even more than we hoped to. By making this the best park we could, we forced the government to keep making its park better, and now, thanks to all of you, this world has the two best theme parks in the galaxy!
“I’ve also found out that the casino back on Lorelei has been even more profitable than expected, which means that each of you will be earning approximately twice what we projected. I hope all you legionnaires have taken advantage of the tax shelters we’ve set up for you—I just got an excellent lesson in how important good tax advice can be.
“And finally, I want to thank Flight Leftenant Qual, who’s been with us as an observer—and a good friend—for the last several months. The ambassador tells me that Qual’s mission is complete and he’s been recalled to his home world—but he’ll always find a welcome if he visits Omega Company.” Another cheer went up, amid cries of “Qual! Qual!” The little Zenobian stood in the corner grinning, holding a tall glass of water—his race didn’t use alcohol, but he was clearly as happy as anyone in the room.
“One last thing, and then I’ll let you get back to the party. Ambassador Gottesman tells me that in part because of our good treatment of Leftenant Qual, the Federation has signed a peace treaty with the Zenobian Empire. That’s one more feather in the Omega Mob’s cap! So, let me offer a toast: To the Omega Mob, the best outfit in the Legion—and I’ll fight anybody, right up to the commanding general, who tries to tell me anything else!”
“Hear, hear,” cried Moustache, and the assembled legionnaires broke into cheers. Out in the park, a band was playing a syncopated dance tune, and from somewhere a little farther away, there came the rumble of a roller coaster and the involuntary squeals of passengers as the lead car dove into the steep plunge that began the ride. Phule raised his water glass and took a deep draught of ice-cold champagne, then threw back his head and laughed. It had been a very good day after all.
About the Authors
Robert Lynn Asprin was an American science fiction and fantasy author, best known for his MythAdventures and Phule’s Company series. As an active fan of the genres, he was a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism, a co-founder of the Great Dark Horde, and founder of the Dorsai Irregulars. He was nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Dramatic Presentation for The Capture in 1976.
Asprin died in 2008 at the age of 61 having published over fifty novels and several short stories.
Peter Jewell Heck is an American science fiction and mystery author, best known for his “Mark Twain Mysteries” and Phule’s Company series. He was an editor for Ace Books and is a regular reviewer for Asimov’s Science Fiction and Kirkus Reviews.
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Book Description
When the planet Zenobia is invaded, Captain Willard Phule is made their military advisor. The first priority for Phule’s Company: staying out from underfoot of the peaceful, dinosaurlike Zenobians …
But, unbeknownst to the Zenobians, they’re getting two Phules for the price of one. A robot double of Phule appears out of nowhere. And only the real Phule knows who the real Phule is …
Digital Edition – 2017
WordFire Press
wordfirepress.com
ISBN: 978-1-61475-459-6
Copyright © 2001 by Robert Asprin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Janet McDonald
Cover artwork images by Jeff Herndon
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
Book Design by RuneWright, LLC
www.RuneWright.com
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
Published by
WordFire Press, an imprint of
WordFire, Inc.
PO Box 1840
Monument, CO 80132
Contents
Book Description
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Author
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles
Prologue
“All right, all right,” said Reverend Jordan Ayres, rubbing his hands together. He stepped out from behind the podium in the rented ballroom and made a beckoning gesture. “Who’s ready to make himself over in the image of the King? Step right up!”
Rev had been particularly successful in winning converts to the Church of the King, his own denomination, from among the rookie legionnaires. This might have been because the older legionnaires were more jaded, or perhaps the new crop saw him as one of their own in the way the veterans didn’t. Or it may simply have been the luck of the draw. In any case, the meeting room in the Landoor Plaza Hotel was nearly half full with those who’d come to pay their homage to the King, many local civilians in addition to the legionnaires.
“Uh, Rev—this isn’t gonna hurt, is it?” The quavering voice belonged to Roadkill, one of the new recruits who’d joined Phule’s Company at the same time as Rev’s assignment as the company chaplain.
“Hurt?” Rev scoffed. “Are you gonna worry about whether it hurts? This is one of the deepest mysteries of the faith. If you don’t love the King enough to put up with a little bit of hurtin’, I’m not a-gonna push you, son. You’re not doin’ this for me, you’re doin’ it for yourself—and for him.”
“The King sang about hurtin’,” said another of the recruits, Freefall. “He wasn’t afraid to walk down Lonely Street …” Her voice carried just enough of a hint of disapproval to suggest that Roadkill was being shortsighted and selfish—that Roadkill’s faith might even be open to question.
“He asked us not to be cruel,” riposted Roadkill. “Besides, I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it. I just want to know ahead of time if it hurts, and you don’t know any more about that than I do. The only one here who’s gone through with it is Rev, and from what he said, I guess it does hurt.”
“It don’t hurt all that much, though,” said Rev, stepping forward and smiling. Then he cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject. “Besides, there’s another choice you all need to make before you go any further—a choice you might not even realize you have.”
“Another choice?” Freefall raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it enough for us to give up our own appearance to take on His? A face none of us was born with?”
“That’s right, there’s still another choice,” said Rev. “’Cause even the King had more than one way he looked. Why don’t y’all set down and let me show you some holos? There are a few li’l constraints on account of bone structure and all, but even with all that, you’ve got a bunch of different models to pick from.” He motioned toward the seats, and with only a little confusion, the disciples obediently took their places.
“All right,” said Rev. “I’m a-gonna show you what y’all’s choices are, and then we’ll start. It’s pretty quick once we do. And by tomorrow morning, you’ll all be livin’ testimonials to the power of the King!”
A hush fell over the crowd as Rev picked up the remote control for the holojector.
“Now, here he is when he first started out,” said Rev. “This is a good one if you’re young and slim. Notice how the sideburns are narrower than mine …”
The audience stared at the holo, rapt. Rev droned on.
Chapter One
Journal #474
My employer’s company had achieved a very pleasant modus vivendi on Landoor, its most recent station. The company’s original responsibility as a peacekeeping team was quickly modified, as my employer decided to turn his efforts to helping the planet realize its potential as a tourist mecca. After considerable investment of time and money—and no little personal effort—he had achieved success.