The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  “Excellent,” said Phule. “This will give us greatly improved logistics. Being dependent on material brought in from off-world is never ideal. We’re lucky that our two industrial bases are similar enough for us to exchange products.”

  “Yes, except for discrepancies of measurement,” said Korg. “Your units have mystified our engineers. Why in Gazma’s name do meters and kilograms multiply by tens, and seconds by sixties?”

  “Ancient Earth history,” said Phule with a shrug. “I’m a soldier, not an engineer. I just have to use the stuff, not make sense of it.”

  “I foresee difficulties when trade between our worlds extends beyond raw materials,” said Korg, ambling over to stare out a window at the busy Zenobian capital city. “I assure you, our factories will not be happy if they must retool to match Alliance standards.”

  “That won’t be as big a problem as you think,” said Phule. “We’re already dealing with four advanced races, each with its own standards—and nobody wanted to change, believe me. Most of the worlds still use their own standards for internal markets. But when you become a major player in inter-world trade, you’ll find that the profits are significant enough to make retooling worthwhile. My father’s done it plenty of times in his munitions business. Just for one example, you’ll find that his copy of your stun ray is part-for-part interchangeable with your original.”

  Korg turned and looked at Phule with what appeared to be a puzzled expression. “Why would he do that? Would it not be easier to capture the market for himself if he made the copy to his own standard?”

  “Maybe, but this way, your forces can become customers. He’s willing to bet he can match your quality—or top it. And having more than one source of standard replacement parts is a selling point. His customers are less likely to get hit with shortages. To take the obvious case, it’s a lot easier and cheaper for Omega Company to buy spare parts from you than to bring them in from off-planet. And if you send forces off-planet, odds are they’ll do business with Phule-Proof.”

  “Very interesting,” said Korg, clapping his hands together. “This opens up possibilities I had not foreseen. Our economists will want to scrutinize this theory. Perhaps I will call you back to address a group of them, when you have settled your company in place.”

  “I’m not an economic theorist, but I’d be glad to share a few ideas with your people,” said Phule. “But your mentioning my company reminds me. I do have work to do at the camp, and it’s past time I got down to it. Thank you for your hospitality, and I hope we can help you solve the problems you called us in about. I’ve got a couple of my best people working on possible answers, and we’ll let you know as soon as we have anything to report.”

  “Very good,” said Korg. “Your vehicle has been fueled, and you should find all in readiness. I look forward to working with you and your people, Captain Clown.”

  “The pleasure will be mutual, I’m sure,” said Phule. He snapped off a salute and gathered up his papers for the trip to camp. He was especially anxious to see how the new equipment was working in his absence—as well as how the company had handled its responsibilities under Rembrandt and Armstrong. He’d been delegating more and more responsibility to them, and they’d responded by growing into the expanded roles he’d given them. If this kept up, the company would be able to survive the worst assaults of its enemies, who, he increasingly suspected, were thicker in Legion Headquarters than here on Zenobia or anywhere else.

  * * *

  Major Botchup had ordered Lieutenant Armstrong to show his adjutant, Lieutenant Snipe, the camp, an assignment that Snipe took as license to treat Armstrong as his personal lackey. Armstrong was already silently fuming even before the pair arrived at Comm Central. He ushered Snipe through the door and said in a low voice, “This is the base’s real nerve center. With our wrist communicators, every legionnaire in the company can reach anyone else on a moment’s notice.”

  “That sounds like a security risk,” said Snipe. “What if the enlisted men listen in on the officers’ communications?”

  “Not a problem,” said Armstrong. “We have private circuits for the officers when we need to talk among ourselves.”

  “As long as nobody’s eavesdropping,” said Snipe, tapping his finger on the top of a counter. “The major will want to take a good, close look at that system. We aren’t in friendly territory here. The enemy could know every move you’re planning before your own men do.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Armstrong. “The captain’s brought in all the best new equipment. It’s got security features well above milspec.”

  “Security features that anybody else with enough money can buy. Or buy the equipment to bug everything you say,” sniffed Snipe, clearly unimpressed.

  While they’d been talking, Mother had been sinking lower and lower behind her equipment console. Finally, when Snipe turned and pointed at her and snapped, “Who’s that?” she gave a little cry and sank entirely out of sight.

  Snipe turned to Armstrong and said, “Who is that person? Doesn’t she know the proper way to act when an officer enters the room?”

  “Pgfkr,” said Mother, almost inaudibly, from behind the desk.

  “Speak up!” said Snipe. “If you’re going to address an officer, do so in a proper military manner! What is your name and serial number, legionnaire?”

  “Gmafngbrkshl,” said Mother, even more inaudibly. Suddenly she leapt up and bolted from the room.

  “What the hell was that?” said Snipe, staring at the departing legionnaire.

  “Uh, Mr. Snipe, the comm engineer is rather sensitive,” said Armstrong, leaping to Mother’s defense. “She really isn’t at her best in a face-to-face situation with superior officers—”

  “Well, it’s time she got over that quirk. If she won’t talk to her officers, she should be replaced with somebody competent,” barked Snipe. “Whose idea was it to put her in such a critical position?”

  “Captain Jester’s, of course,” said Armstrong, uncomfortably aware that Snipe was likely to take it as evidence in the case the new regime was obviously building against the captain. “You see, she’s really completely different on the air—”

  “No reason to coddle her neurosis,” said Snipe, looking around. His eye focused on a doorway at the end of the counter where they were standing. “Ah, there’s someplace I want to see. I hope this is more in keeping with the Legion tradition than the rest of the base.”

  “That’s the officers’ lounge,” said Armstrong.

  “Yes, of course,” said Snipe. “That’s why I wanted to see it. Or did you forget that I am also an officer?”

  “Lieutenant, you hardly give me a chance to forget it,” said Armstrong, attempting a rare ironic sally.

  Snipe ignored him and made a beeline for the lounge. But he stopped at the door with an astonished expression on his face. There on the couch sat Tusk-anini, seven feet tall with the face of a giant warthog and a thick book in his hands, taking up half the room. “What on earth are you doing here?” said Snipe after gaining his composure.

  “Am reading Seven Types of Ambiguity,” said Tusk-anini, peering truculently at Snipe. “Your planet people never read twentieth-century Earth books?”

  “Is this … sophont an officer?” Snipe turned to Armstrong and asked, quite unnecessarily.

  “No,” said Armstrong. “We let Tusk-anini come in here to read when he’s not helping Mother. He’s the only one who uses the place much, late at night.”

  “A very bad precedent,” said Snipe, peering at the Volton.

  Tusk-anini peered back at him. “What you got against new critics?” he growled. “You deconstructionist?”

  “I am an officer,” sputtered Snipe. “And you are not.”

  “Noticing that already,” said Tusk-anini, closing the book but keeping his place with a large foredigit. He stood up, looming over the two lieutenants. “You making a point, or you just like a lot talking?”

  “This is insubordinati
on!” said Snipe, turning to Armstrong. “And he’s threatening an officer as well! I want this legionnaire arrested!”

  Armstrong blinked. “Tusk-anini? Threatening you? That’s preposterous, Mr. Snipe. Why, he wouldn’t harm a fly—”

  “Would too,” said Tusk-anini pedantically. “But only if fly biting me.”

  “I want this legionnaire confined to quarters!” howled Snipe.

  “Lieutenant, you’re overreacting,” said Armstrong. “I’m as much a rulebook man as anybody, but you have to make allowances. Tusk-anini’s been an asset to the company, and his reading doesn’t lower our effectiveness in any way.”

  “I see, Lieutenant,” said Second Lieutenant Snipe. “Well, if that’s the way the wind blows, I’ll just take the matter up with Major Botchup. And if he sees things my way, I suspect you’ll have something to answer for as well.”

  “Mr. Snipe, I’ll take my chances,” said Armstrong. “Would you like to finish inspecting the base before you report to the major?”

  “Very well,” snapped the other lieutenant. He stomped out the door, and a keen nose would have detected smoke coming from his ears.

  Armstrong turned to Tusk-anini and shrugged. “Things are going to be tricky until the captain gets back,” he said quietly. “Until then, I suggest you lay low.”

  The Volton nodded but said nothing, and Armstrong hurried to catch up with Lieutenant Snipe. He managed to avoid any overt confrontations for the rest of the inspection tour, but he knew very well that Snipe would concoct some pretext to find fault.

  * * *

  Chocolate Harry flipped through the pages of his latest issue of Biker’s Dream. Somewhere, he’d seen an ad for a new modification package that sounded like just what he needed to get that extra millimeter of performance out of his hawg. Thanks to the traffic in anti-robot camouflage, he’d accumulated a nice bit of spare change for just such a purpose. The ad had been somewhere in the back of the mag …

  He was still searching when a voice broke through his concentration. “Yo, Sarge, I gotta have a couple of reels of sixteen-gauge copper wire!”

  With a sigh, Chocolate Harry set down the magazine. “Couple of reels? What for you need all that copper, Do-Wop?” He didn’t bother shifting his feet from off the desktop.

  “Captain’s orders, C.H.,” said Do-Wop, leaning over the supply sergeant’s desk. “Me and Soosh gotta find the Hidden Ones, special assignment, top priority. Just ask the captain, you don’t believe me—”

  Chocolate Harry held up a hand for silence. “I know all about the special assignment, dude; that ain’t what I asked you. What for you need that much copper? That’s damn near a year’s supply for the whole company, and we aren’t exactly where I can resupply all that easy. If there’s somethin’ else you can substitute, I—”

  “Nah, Soosh says it’s gotta be copper, Sarge,” said Do-Wop, a distinct whine in his voice. “You don’t wanna mess up this special assignment Captain Jester gave us, do ya? He’ll be really mad if it don’t get finished because you wouldn’t give us the stuff we needed.”

  “Ain’t nobody said I wouldn’t give it to you,” said C.H. He swung his feet off the desk and sat up straight in the chair. “But you do have to give me all the right paperwork, cap’n’s orders or not. Now, for starters, where’s your Form SL-951-C-4? Can’t give out strategic supplies without that one, in triplicate.”

  “Man, nobody told us we needed no forms,” said Do-Wop, a look of dismay on his face. “Can you give me the wire and the forms, and I’ll bring ’em back later?”

  Chocolate Harry shook his head gravely. “Not unless I want to get in a heap of trouble myself. This new major’s a stickler for routine. Forms first, then your copper. That’s definitely strategic supplies. Unless maybe you’re gonna use it for some nondesignated strategic purpose, in which case maybe I can dispense with the SL-951-C-4. But I gotta know up front.”

  “Uh, yeah, non-designated strategic purpose, that’s the ticket,” said Do-Wop, grinning. “Got yer strategic purpose right here. Soosh tells me, he’s gonna set up a biomass detector to search for the Hidden Ones the lizards have been trying so hard to catch, which they ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’em except their comm signals.”

  “Biomass detector?” The supply sergeant frowned. “With two whole reels of copper wire, you oughta be able to track a stray geefle bug halfway across the galaxy. What do you clowns think you’re looking for?”

  “All we know is it’s too hard to find by bare eyeball,” said Do-Wop. “That’s why Soosh decided to rig something special. He dug out the designs from some old program, and he’s doin’ some custom mods …”

  Chocolate Harry rubbed his bearded chin, speculating. “Man, I know you’re just followin’ the captain’s orders, but maybe you should look around a minute before you get in over your head. Have you dudes ever thought that maybe the reason the Zenobians can’t find no enemy is that the enemy ain’t alive?”

  Do-Wop frowned. “Ain’t alive? You mean we’re looking for spooks?”

  “Nah, nothin’ like that,” said Chocolate Harry. “I’m thinkin’ robots.”

  Do-Wop laughed. “Robots! You trying to run that crazy scam on me? Half the company must be wearin’ that purple junk you’re sellin’.”

  Chocolate Harry’s face turned solemn. “Do-Wop, it pains me to have you question my good intentions. This here robot camo is guaranteed effective. Ain’t a robot in the Alliance can spot you, if you’re wearin’ it. If one of those renegade robots gets you in its sights, and you ain’t camouflaged—”

  “Aww, save the scare stories for the rookies, Sarge,” said Do-Wop with a wave of his hand. “Now, are you gonna make me fill out twenty pages of papers, or can I get that copper Soosh wants? Or do we have to call the captain and tell him you won’t let us have it?”

  “All right, all right,” said Chocolate Harry. He thought a moment about making Do-Wop go to the major to get the papers signed, but on second thought decided there was no percentage in calling the new CO’s attention to Supply just yet. That round of trouble could wait indefinitely, as far as he was concerned. He shrugged and said, “I’m just tryin’ to make sure my buddies’ behinds are covered, is all. Go on around back and tell Double-X what you need. If he gives you any hassle, tell him it’s cool with me, OK?”

  “OK, Harry. I knew you’d see it my way,” said Do-Wop, grinning. “I’ll tell Soosh about that robot theory, and maybe we’ll add metal and plastic detectors to what we’re setting up. Thanks!”

  “Think nothin’ of it,” said Chocolate Harry. He picked up his copy of Biker’s Dream and began looking for the ad again. Maybe this time he could find it without being interrupted for company business.

  * * *

  Phule had booted up his Port-a-Brain and settled back to look over his investments—there were a couple of items in his portfolio that hadn’t been performing well, and he thought it might be time to divest them—when the hoverjeep’s engine alarm began to beep. “What does that mean, Beeker?” he said, looking up from the screen. They’d put the vehicle on automatic for the trip back to base, expecting no traffic or weather problems. Now, halfway home, something was going wrong.

  “We seem to be approaching a magnetic anomaly, sir,” said Beeker, who was sitting in the front seat near the instrument panel. He peered at the readout and said, “Power seems to be dropping abruptly.”

  “That’s not good,” said Phule. “Let’s find someplace to set down before power runs out entirely. If worse comes to worst, we’ll call base and have somebody take a run out and pick us up.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Beeker. “There’s a clear area just ahead. I’ll put us down there.” He slid into the driver’s seat and flipped the control switch over to manual. After a moment, he said, “The controls aren’t responding, sir. Shall I activate the emergency signal?”

  Phule nodded and took up an extra notch in his safety belt. “Yes, and I’ll try to raise the base on the comm.” He touched the On b
utton on his wrist communicator and lifted it closer to his mouth. “Mother, come in. This is Jester with a priority call. Mother, come in.” The communicator emitted a loud burst of white noise but nothing resembling a coherent signal. “Mayday. Mayday. Mother, can you hear me?”

  Beeker turned around to look at him. “Sir, if I may make a suggestion, perhaps you should continue to transmit, on the chance that she can hear you but cannot reply. Tell them our position, and perhaps they can send someone to aid us. I will attempt to regain control of the vehicle.”

  “Good plan,” said Phule. “If you can just get the thing stopped, at least we won’t have to worry about hitting anything.”

  “That is what I have been attempting, sir,” said Beeker. He returned his attention to the controls. After a few moments, he said, “We are veering off course, sir. The vehicle appears to be under external control. Should we abandon it?”

  Phule looked at the boulder-strewn ground passing beneath the jeep and shook his head. “We’re still moving too fast,” he said. “I think we’re better off riding it out—unless something happens to make staying aboard worse than jumping. If we do get stranded out here, we’ll probably need the jeep’s emergency kit.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Beeker, reaching up to hold his hat. “The power readout’s still dropping, sir. I don’t think we’ve slowed down, though.”

  If anything, it felt as if they’d picked up speed. The jeep was headed almost at right angles to its original course now, and none of Beeker’s efforts made any apparent difference. In the usual course of things, if power failed, the grav units would’ve lowered the hoverjeep gently to the ground—but at this speed, there would have been nothing gentle about it. The only thing to do was hold on and hope the crash protection was up to its job if they hit anything too solid.