“How much energy does it use?” asked Inspector Slurry, eyeing the large panel of readouts above Mother’s console.
“Less than you’d think,” said Phule. “In a military field base, we have to be prepared to operate in emergency conditions. One of the first things an attacker is going to try to hit is the power supply. So in a pinch, we have to be able to run our entire system on the power we can produce ourselves. That puts the premium on efficiency.”
“Efficiency is a relative term,” said Inspector Gardner. “It tends to vary depending on what the person using the word is trying to sell you. Just how much power do these systems use in a normal day’s activities?”
Phule paused just a second before answering. “Our exact power requirements are classified, but I think it’s safe enough to tell you that we can run the entire base indefinitely on solar energy, which of course there’s plenty of out here in the desert. And there are backup systems in case we get a run of bad weather, natural or otherwise. Again, you’ll have to pardon me for not giving details.”
“Well, solar is acceptably green, for the most part,” said Chief Inspector Snieff. “I do want to find out about these backup systems, though. I’ll have you know that I have made a study of most of the ways one can generate and store power, and the majority of them are very suspect, environmentally. I would hate to think …”
Whatever Snieff would have hated to think, her revelation was interrupted by a loud exclamation from Barky, the Environmental Dog, who had wandered through the comm center, sniffing the equipment and eyeing the personnel, and had finally found his way to the door of the officers’ lounge. There he had halted, staring inside the door and growling, which no one had quite noticed until he let loose with a series of loud barks.
“What in space …?” said Phule. He strode over to the door and looked inside to see what had caused the dog’s reaction. There, to his surprise, stood Tusk-anini, on top of a chair, his head scraping the ceiling. The Volton was scowling down his long snout at the Environmental Dog. “Uh-oh,” said Phule.
“Tell famous doggy would be most healthy for him to stay distant,” said Tusk-anini calmly, but emphatically. “I no want to be hurting little Earth animal. But I tell you now—doggy tries to bite, Tusk-anini doing what he needing to do.”
“Barky!” said Inspector Gardner. “Come on, fella—leave the nice sophont alone. He can’t help it if he smells …”
“Tusk-anini no smell,” said the Volton. “Doggy smell. Tusk-anini stink.”
“Now, let’s not take things too literally,” said Phule, stepping gingerly between Tusk-anini and Barky, now apparently pacified. Inspector Gardner was down on one knee beside the dog, scratching him between the shoulder blades and holding lightly on to his collar. “Would it be fair to say that Barky’s nose is perhaps a little too sensitive, Inspector Snieff?”
The AEIOU inspector sniffed. “Barky is a genetically enhanced ultracanine, highly trained to discern the smells of pollution and other assaults on the environment. If some of the sophonts in your company carry odors like those of common pollutants, it may be no surprise that he reacts to them with hostility. Would it be fair to say that perhaps some of your legionnaires need to bathe more frequently, Captain Jester?”
“Begging your pardon, Chief Inspector, I seriously doubt that is the problem,” said Beeker. “If I may be permitted to say so, I can testify, based on personal observation, that the bathing facilities on this post would be the pride of many private athletic clubs.”
“Maybe,” said Inspector Slurry. “Probably waste water, too.”
“I think I can respond to that,” said Phule, grinning. “This base module is about as water-efficient as you can contrive, Inspector. A military unit in an arid environment can’t afford to take water for granted. We recover, reuse, recycle, and recondition every possible drop of water. In fact, about the only way we could do better would be to capture the perspiration of our legionnaires working outside the base. And if we really needed to do that, I suspect we could find a way to do it …”
“Undoubtedly by throwing even more money at it,” said Snieff. “Have you ever sat down and calculated how many resources your company requires to maintain this exorbitant lifestyle?”
“Oh, yes,” said Phule. “I think you’d find the figures very interesting. If you compare us to units of similar size, on similar missions, you’ll find that Omega Company actually has a significantly less negative impact on the environment than a typical military operation. Granted, I’ve solved a lot of our problems by spending money—but it’s my money I’m spending, not the government’s, and I make very sure I get what I’m paying for.”
“Never minding money,” said Tusk-anini. “Why don’t you taking Barky dog away so Tusk-anini can finish reading book? Am halfway through Old Earth classic and want to know how it comes out.” He pointed to the thick volume on the floor. The spine of the book displayed the curious word, Dhalgren.
“Woof!” said Barky, the Environmental Dog, sniffing the book, but then Inspector Gardner clapped his hands, and a few moments later, the Environmental Dog and all the other visitors left the Officers’ Lounge to Tusk-anini. With a snort of relief, the Volton stepped off the table and picked up his book. He wasn’t quite sure where the story was leading, but on the whole it wasn’t any stranger than most of the other human literature he’d read.
Which, he thought as he settled down, wasn’t saying very much …
* * *
The Fat Chance Casino was crowded as Ernie made his way through the gaming rooms. No surprise there; according to the local newstaper, several large space liners had just made their regular stopovers at Lorelei, and the travel-weary passengers were eagerly getting what they’d come for: first-class dining, lavish entertainment, and high-stakes gambling. The sight of all the expensively dressed suckers with fat credit accounts made Ernie’s mouth water. It was every grifter’s dream, and there were plenty of grifters willing to take advantage of it. Except in the Fat Chance Casino, where Captain Jester had ordered his security forces to clamp down on anything that might cut into the players’ enjoyment—or the house’s percentage.
He stopped at the bar and ordered a drink—a tall glass of quinine water with a twist of lime. No alcohol tonight; that had been another of his promises to Lola. Instead, he’d brought along an Aromacap: a tiny capsule filled with an aromatic oil that, rubbed on the skin, conveyed the exact odor of an expensive brand of imported gin. If the marks—or casino security—thought he’d been drinking heavily, they were likely to underestimate him. Better yet, as long as he stuck to Aldebaran Amber Gin, Ernie had a fair chance of convincing Lola that he’d been using the Aromacap instead of knocking back a few G’n’T’s while he was supposed to be working.
But this time, Ernie had promised Lola to stay straight. More importantly, he’d promised not to do anything that might draw the attention of security—either the casino’s or Victor Phule’s very professional bodyguard. That meant resisting the temptation to pocket any loose change that might be lying around, such as waiters’ uncollected tips or customers’ unattended handbags. And it meant not carrying any of a number of devices meant to increase the odds in his favor, devices generally frowned upon both by the casinos and by those players who were naive enough to expect that everyone else in the game was playing by the rules. Especially in the Fat Chance, the ownership took exception to such devices—and its guards seemed to have a better-than-average record at spotting them in use.
In most places, he’d have taken his chances and figured on tipping the security guards to turn a blind eye. But the Fat Chance Casino’s policy was to expel any cheaters it caught not just from the casino, but from Lorelei itself—and its guards were apparently tip-proof. If Ernie and Lola were identified as cheats, their chances of completing the mission that brought them here shrank very close to zero—as did their chances of convincing a certain Mr. V to let them keep breathing. That was good enough to convince Ernie to keep
his hands to himself and leave his educated dice at home.
His specific mission tonight was to find either of the Phules, Willard (A.K.A. Captain Jester) or his father Victor. In principle, that was a no-brainer. He knew what both men looked like and had a fair idea where, in the public parts of the casino, they might be found this time of day. In practice, as his previous experience with the younger Phule had taught him, the job was far from easy.
On their previous visit to Lorelei, Ernie and Lola had laid a subtle trap to kidnap the captain of Omega Company, and on the space liner away from Lorelei Station, found themselves in custody of an Andromatic robot whose features were a dead ringer for Captain Jester’s. The situation had fallen entirely apart when the robot had commandeered an escape pod and left the space liner entirely. Luckily, nobody on board ship had managed to connect them to the incident, or else (in addition to their other troubles) they might now be trying to figure out how to come up with the replacement value of a deep-space escape pod.
Ernie had no idea whether the robot had been recovered or replaced; certainly the Phules could afford to do either. But barring information to the contrary, he and Lola agreed that any Phule they encountered had to be considered a possible robot. Since their contract had said nothing about robots—since, in fact, Mr. V had been emphatically uninterested in hearing about their misadventures—the two kidnappers needed to be sure they were getting the real thing. And with a high-priced bodyguard standing nearby, an experimental poke or pinch to determine the subject’s reaction would not be a good idea.
Ernie drifted nonchalantly through the casino, stopping to look at the play at a table here or there, occasionally placing a small bet on a whim. If anyone were watching, they were likely to check him off as a bored dilettante, with no fixed purpose. But he gradually made his way toward the higher-priced rooms, where his quarry was likely to be playing, or watching the action. What would happen when he found one of the Phules remained to be seen. But he’d think of something, he was sure. He could always think of something.
* * *
“Well, I believe you’ve seen our whole camp,” Phule said to the AEIOU inspectors. “I can see it’s getting close to dinnertime; could I persuade you to stay for a taste of Omega Company’s cooking? I think Sergeant Escrima is as fine a chef as you’ll find in this arm of the Galaxy …”
“Is the food organic?” asked Slurry, a dubious expression on his face. “We absolutely insist on that.”
“I believe you can take it for granted that Sergeant Escrima’s offerings fulfill that requirement,” said Beeker, his chin inching upward. “In fact, it is all but impossible to obtain nutrition from inorganic substances.”
“The Nanoids seem to do just fine with sand,” said Phule, grinning. “But I think you’re missing the point, Beeks.” He turned back to the AEIOU team. “In fact, Escrima insists on only the freshest and purest ingredients—I ought to know, since I’m the one paying for them. And he prides himself on being able to supply a satisfying meal to anyone who walks into the mess hall. At the moment, he’s responsible for feeding members of at least five different species and I don’t know how many ethnicities. So I’m sure you’ll find a wide selection of dishes that meet your requirements—unless you insist on your food being bland or overcooked, in which case he’ll probably come after you with a red-hot skewer. Would you like to join us?”
Inspector Gardner chuckled. “I’ve been eating camp food for long enough that I’m tempted to take you up on it. Unless your chef’s an even worse terror than you say …”
“You may be certain he’s a terror, sir,” said Beeker. “But I’d advise you to take up the captain’s invitation nonetheless. The food is the best on the planet.”
“Given the alternatives, I’d be very surprised if it weren’t,” said Gardner. “Even so, I’d love to join you. But I can only speak for myself. Chief, do you think we can eat here, or do we need to go back to our own camp?”
“Eating here would help conserve our own food supplies,” added Slurry. “And it would give us a chance to evaluate the Legion’s energy efficiency and waste management procedures.”
“You shouldn’t judge the Legion as a whole by us,” said Lieutenant Rembrandt, earnestly. “To be as clean and green as we are, you have to have a CO who cares about something besides kowtowing to the top brass. Most Legion companies spend so much time trying to avoid getting on the wrong side of headquarters that they can barely achieve their basic mission, let alone worry about the environment.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Chief Inspector Snieff. “But I believe I’m going to make my own decision on this company’s environmental practices rather than accept the testimony of an undoubtedly biased party. Granted, I haven’t found any blatant destruction of vital habitats, or flagrant pollution of the environment—so far. The lack of evidence doesn’t mean this company isn’t guilty.”
“What a convenient system,” said Beeker. “Guilty until proven innocent—it must save you ever so much trouble.”
“We nearly destroyed Old Earth by giving the anti-environment forces too many loopholes,” retorted Snieff. “The AEIOU has sworn never to let that happen again.”
“Perhaps you should consult the local inhabitants before you make your decision,” said Rembrandt. “The captain has worked very closely with the Zenobians to minimize the impact of this base on their planet. If they’re satisfied, why is it your concern?”
“Locals can be very shortsighted,” said Slurry. “It’s our business to think of the long term.”
“Well, at the moment, I’m not thinking any farther ahead than dinner,” said Phule, stepping forward to cut off any reply from his officers. “If you all want to join me, now’s your chance—and I cannot only promise you the best food on the planet, but one of the best meals you’ll ever eat.”
Gardner and Slurry both looked at Snieff, but apprehension was clear on their faces as their chief wrinkled her brow, trying to decide. Some of the legionnaires who’d overheard the discussion shook their heads, or grinned ruefully. Escrima’s cooking had spoiled them for the kind of rations the AEIOU contingent had undoubtedly brought with them to Zenobia. The inspectors would be sorry if they missed it—but they’d be even sorrier if they accepted the invitation, and then had to go back to their own cooking.
At last, Chief Inspector Snieff shrugged, and said, “Very well, Captain, we’ll dine with you tonight. It’s late enough that by the time we returned to camp we’d be behind schedule for our meal. I suppose we will simply have to trust this Legion cook to make us something moderately healthy and not too extravagant.”
“I think you can trust Escrima for that,” said Phule, with a knowing smile. “Come with me!” And he turned and led the AEIOU inspectors toward the mess hall.
* * *
Mess Sergeant Escrima, undisputed ruler of Omega Company’s kitchens and dining hall, hadn’t been told to expect company for dinner, but that didn’t matter. Every meal that came out of his kitchen was a special occasion, as far as he was concerned. And when he learned that the visitors were humans, he shrugged. For someone who regularly cooked for Synthians, Gambolts, and a Volton, that was no challenge at all.
Sure enough, the captain’s guests had found plenty to put on their plates as they went through the line. One of the AEIOU inspectors, a severe-looking woman, restricted herself to plainly cooked vegetables and rice; Escrima, watching from behind the counters, thought she could use a little fattening up, but kept his opinion to himself. If she didn’t appreciate his sauces and meat dishes, she wasn’t worth talking to, anyway, he thought. As long as she didn’t say anything, he’d leave her alone.
The others took a wider sampling of the cuisine, and seemed excited to find so many tasty choices in what they must have expected to be a typical military mess. That made Escrima feel better; he always enjoyed surprising visitors who thought that institutional food was required by some cosmic law to consist of subpar ingredients, unimaginative recip
es, and bad cookery.
Even Barky, the Environmental Dog, was relatively easy to please. An interplanetary tri-vee star could have gotten away with being much more temperamental—even ace reporter Jennie Higgins had been known to get picky about her dinner selection—but the legionnaires of Omega Company (at least the ones who dared get close to his teeth) oohed and ahhed to see such a famous animal in their midst. And so, with a good dose of fan appreciation as appetizer, the ever-environmentally aware Barky settled right down with a medium-rare prime vege-rib and seemed as happy as a clam in unpolluted water. Escrima grinned. Most cooks—even the specialists in vegetarian cuisine—had a tough time making vege-beef taste like anything but recycled cardboard (which it mostly was), and then only by disguising it with enough marinade and sauces to swamp a space liner. Only a genius like Escrima could serve it up plain and make it not just edible but delicious.
He’d been more worried by another variation from the normal routine tonight—the unannounced arrival of a new legionnaire of a species not previously represented in Omega Company. Escrima pulled down his trusty copy of The Practical Chef’s Encyclopedia of Culinary Preferences and Nutritional Requirements of Sophonts Around the Alliance and looked up the entry on the new arrival. It’d be just his luck to be short of some nonsynthesizable nutrient the Lepoids required, with no way to get it but express delivery at exorbitant prices. And since the entire expense would be to feed just one legionnaire, some bean-counter in headquarters was likely to gripe at the expense. That was tough luck, as far as Escrima was concerned. They should have thought about that before they’d sent a Lepoid legionnaire to Zenobia. His job was to feed ’em, and screw anybody who didn’t like the expense.
But after flipping through several cross-references and charts of substitutions, scowling as he matched the names of the exotic ingredients with their common equivalents, Sergeant Escrima sat back and smiled. Feeding the new guy was going to be a piece of cake, after all. Carrot cake, to be exact.
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 127
