The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  * * *

  “Stranger, yer problems is solved,” said the man sitting at the table. His chair was leaned back, and his boots were on the otherwise empty tabletop, giving a good view of his wooly chaps and oversize spurs. His hat was wide-brimmed and tall-crowned, and his moustache drooped nearly to his chin.

  “I certainly hope so,” said Phule. “I’m Captain Jester, by the way. And you are …?”

  “Buck Short,” said the man. “Put ’er thar, Cap’n!” He extended a meaty hand for Phule to shake.

  “Uh, pleased to meet you,” said Phule. “I’m looking for a man …”

  “Gotcha,” said Short, nodding. “Summbitch is good as dead. Jes’ tell me what he looks like …”

  “No, no, I don’t want him killed,” said Phule. “This fellow used to work for me, and he’s run off with a woman …”

  “Oh, hell, that’s different,” said Short. He peered at Phule for a moment, then said, “Zit yer woman he’s run off with?”

  “Hardly,” said Phule, somewhat taken aback at the notion. Then he shrugged, and said, “But if she wants to come back with him, that’s fine too.”

  “Now you’re talkin’!” said Short. He sat forward and slammed a fist onto the tabletop. “How’s about a drink, then? Ol’ Ned’s got a pert’ good line of red-eye here.”

  “Red-eye? Oh, you mean the whisky,” said Phule. “Sure, why not? But what …”

  Short cut him off. “Hey, Bill!” he shouted. “You heard the cap’n! Bring over that thar bottle—the good stuff, mind ye, none of yer usual banth sweat—and a couple glasses, too!”

  The bartender—a slightly decrepit Andromatic robot with a face Phule recognized as that of a popular Old Earth actor from the days before tri-vee—brought over the bottle and glasses, and favored Phule with the enigmatic line, “This’ll put hair on yer chest!” before trundling back behind the bar.

  “Ol’ Bill always says stuff like that,” confided Buck Short. He grabbed the bottle and sloshed some of the contents into the two glasses, then picked one up. “Wal, here’s mud in yer eye!”

  “Right-o,” said Phule, and took a sip. He nearly spit it out—the “red-eye” seemed to be predominantly fusel oil with other less palatable congeners. He sputtered a moment, then managed to ask, “This is the good stuff?”

  “Best we got,” said Short, setting down his empty glass. “Hey, this is Cut ’N’ Shoot, pardner. You warn’t expectin’ one of those fizzy drinks with little um-brel-lies, was you?”

  “I guess not,” said Phule, shaking his head to clear it. “By the way, did you say you had a plan for finding my man Beeker?”

  Short nodded. “Well, we rents you a hoss, and then I saddles up ol’ Dale-8 …”

  “Day late?” asked Phule, puzzled.

  “Dale-8—that’s my trusty steed,” said Short. “Always liked the name ‘Dale’—that’s what I calls all my trusty steeds. First seven of ’em done gone plumb busted, but this one’s a real peach. Jes’ keeps on runnin’—can’t hardly wear ’im out.”

  “I see,” said Phule. “But what do we need him for?”

  “Why, we gotta go find yer man—and the lady,” said Short. “I reckon they’s run off to Injun territory …”

  “Injun territory?”

  “Hey, watch it,” said the bartender. “Them’s folks too—don’t go slurrin’ on ’em.”

  Short gave a derisive snort. “Folks? Hell, Bill, don’t go givin’ ’em airs—they’s lots of ’em robots, same as you.”

  “Robots? I don’t get it,” said Phule.

  “Well, didn’t nobody else much want the job,” confided Short. “Ain’t too many folks wants to give up a spot in a nice, civilized world to live out in a drafty tent without no runnin’ water or ’lectricity or even tri-vee, and everybody’s hand set against you. Oh, we got some real Injuns, all right—had to have a few jes’ to set the right tone. But we couldn’t get too many, and had to get robots for the rest, which was hard enough, seein’ what prices is nowadays. But I reckon it jes’ wouldn’t be Cut ’N’ Shoot without Injuns.”

  “If you say so,” said Phule, shaking his head. “I guess you’re the local expert. So when do you think we can start?”

  “Let me have another toot, and we’ll hop right to it,” said Buck Short. He poured another glass and offered the bottle to Phule, who declined with a shudder. Short shrugged and drank it down, then put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Hi-yoh, Dale!” he shouted.

  A clattering noise came from the front of the building, and Phule turned in time to see a large metallic shape barge through the swinging doors. “Here I am, boss,” said the robosteed in a voice that carried just a hint of a whinny.

  “Hey, I thought I told you not to bring that hoss in here,” shouted Bill, the bartender. “You gonna mess up my place!”

  “Hell, no,” said Short. “He’s a robot, remember? He ain’t gonna crap on yer floor, which is more than you can say for half the reg’lar customers.” He leapt into the saddle, then reached a hand down for Phule. “C’mon, Cap’n, we gonna go huntin’!”

  Phule took the proffered hand, leapt up behind the cowboy, and in a moment they were out the door and on their way.

  * * *

  The spaceport stagecoach dropped Sushi and Do-Wop off in the middle of a small town, not much more than a crossroads in the dusty landscape. The sun had set beyond the western hills, and a few lights—dim ones, by the standards of most advanced worlds—provided the only illumination on the rustic scene.

  Luckily, one of the lights was outside a building that bore a sign with the word hotel, and the two legionnaires made a beeline for it. There, on a bench on the plank sidewalk, lounged an old codger smoking an imitation corncob pipe. “Hi, there,” said Sushi. “Can you tell me the name of this town?”

  “Damfino,” said the man, not bothering to remove the pipe from his mouth.

  “What, are you stupid?” snapped Do-Wop, who had not enjoyed the stagecoach ride at all. “Don’t you even know the name of this dump?”

  This time the codger took his pipe out of his mouth. “I said, ‘Damfino,’ pilgrim,” he said.

  “Yo, turkey-face,” Do-Wop growled. He brushed past Sushi, who was pointing upward and rolling his eyes meaningfully. “Are you tryin’ to get smart with me?”

  “No, ye gol-durn idjit,” said the codger, glaring at Do-Wop. “I’ve lived here all my life—ask anybody. And Damfino’s the name of the town.” He pointed to the sign above him, which on closer inspection Do-Wop could read in its entirety: Damfino Hotel.

  “I tried to tell you,” Sushi said to a sullen Do-Wop as he opened the door to their hotel room. He plopped down on one of the beds and said, “Anyhow, now that we’re here, we’ve got to figure out where Beeker’s staying, get word to the captain so he can go find him, and then our job will be done.”

  “Why don’t you just hack the Net to find out where he’s staying?” asked Do-Wop. “I bet it’s there, if you went lookin’.”

  “Not enough computer power,” said Sushi patiently. “If I had the captain’s Port-a-Brain, or the milspec equipment I have back on Zenobia, no sweat—I’d probably have it before bedtime. With what I’ve got here, we might not find out anything useful until the captain and Beeker leave the planet, and their computer registers as it goes out through customs.”

  Do-Wop nodded. “So you could find the captain if you had the captain’s computer, but we don’t know where he is, so we can’t get it, so we can’t find him. Ain’t that just the way it always works? Stinker.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” said Sushi. “If either the captain or Beeker would disable their computer’s security, we might be able to figure out where they are. But that’s about as likely as one of them learning to breathe methane.”

  Do-Wop considered. “How’s about we spread a rumor that the security is really a bug, so they turn it off?”

  Sushi shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said at last. “Even if
the captain and Beeker fell for it, they’d get too frustrated trying to get around the safeguards. A Port-a-Brain’s security is set so a casual user can’t just override it. That’s part of what you’re paying for.”

  “Well, I ain’t payin’ for it, and if I could, there’d be a bunch of other things I could use the money for,” said Do-Wop. “But I get your point. These rich guys don’t get their hands dirty—they think there’s somethin’ wrong, they call some rent-a-geek to fix it.”

  “Which would be fine if I’m the guy they’d call,” said Sushi. “But Port-a-Brain probably has a repair shop on any world big enough to have electricity. Which even includes this faux-rustic would-be paradise.”

  “They hide it pretty good,” said Do-Wop, looking around the hotel room. In fact, the designers had made every effort to give the room the appearance of something from before the electronic age. Electrical outlets were concealed behind wooden panels, as was the tri-vee set. The lighting fixture gave off a flickering yellowish illumination that was a fair simulation of a kerosene lantern—although they hadn’t taken realism to the point of simulating the smell of kerosene (which few of the guests would have recognized in any case).

  The locals had plenty of modern machinery, although most of it was well hidden in kitchens, back rooms, and other areas where tourists rarely intruded. Robots were configured to resemble mules, oxen, and other “authentic frontier creatures.” Cut ’N’ Shoot’s founders were sensible businessmen, not members of some cult of perverse self-denial. Even the most authenticity-hungry tourists weren’t usually ready to leave behind basic conveniences. You might as well have asked them to do without their personal entertainment and communications devices.

  Sushi looked around and shrugged. “It doesn’t look as if there’s much else to do here,” he said. He opened his duffel and took out his pocket computer. “I might as well run a search and see if I get lucky. Maybe this planet’s smaller than I think.”

  “Can’t be any smaller than I think,” said Do-Wop, but Sushi ignored him. He was already at work.

  * * *

  The group in Phule’s office was the entire command cadre of Omega Company. Lieutenant Rembrandt presided, sitting behind Phule’s desk. To her left sat Lieutenant Armstrong, and to her right Flight Leftenant Qual, the representative of their Zenobian hosts. First Sergeant Brandy and Supply Sergeant Chocolate Harry sat in two chairs facing the three officers. Unseen but present via comm was Mother, who had announced the bad news that was the reason for the emergency meeting.

  “All right, people,” said Rembrandt. “As we all know, Captain Jester is off-planet and can’t get back fast enough to make any difference. The ball’s in our court. This can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to this company. We’ve dealt with mobsters, monsters, revolutionaries, robots, and enough brass hats to ground a starship. So we ought to be able to deal with a surprise visit from the Legion’s commanding general, right?”

  “Yeah, oughta be a snap,” said Chocolate Harry, the huge Supply sergeant. He spread his hands with a convincing display of nonchalance. “We doin’ our jobs, right? We keepin’ Zenobia safe for the Zenobians.”

  “Demanding your clemency, large one, but Zenobians are doing a great deal toward that end,” said Flight Leftenant Qual. He looked like a diminutive dinosaur—perhaps an allosaurus—dressed up like a military officer for some costume tri-vee, and his language regularly defied the translator’s efforts to make his statements into comprehensible English. But he had a fine military mind, and he was afraid of nothing.

  “The sergeant doesn’t mean we want to take credit for your efforts, Qual,” said Rembrandt. “What he means is that we’re doing the job we came for, and that ought to be enough for the general. Which would be true, except that we all know that General Blitzkrieg has a major grudge against this company and especially against our captain.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said First Sergeant Brandy. “Fact is, the general’s going to be looking for reasons to shove this company right back in the shitcan it was in before Captain Jester came here, and if he can’t find any, he’ll make some up. Looking at the crazy people we’ve got here, it’s not going to be much of a stretch for him to find ’em. Don’t get me wrong, Remmie—I love this company, but we damn sure have to admit we’re never gonna win any spit-’n’-polish contests.” She gestured at the others in the room. With only two of the five present wearing complete uniforms, her point was obvious.

  Rembrandt responded with a wry grin. “We’d have enough trouble filling out the entry forms,” she admitted. “Still, we’ve got a good thing here, and I think we all agree it’s worth protecting. The question is, what can we do to keep the general from destroying everything the captain’s built up?”

  “Be a lot easier if the captain was here,” said Chocolate Harry. “Him and Beeker, they can pretty much make their own rules and convince the brass that was the rules all along. Last time we had to do without the both of ’em, all we had to do was get around that jive-ass Major Botchup. And that robot the captain fixed up to mess with the mobsters’ heads back on Lorelei did half the work for us.”

  “Well, give the troops some credit, too,” said Rembrandt. “They did plenty of messing with Botchup’s head. But I don’t think we can expect the general to be such an easy mark.”

  “Why not?” said Brandy, a sudden glint in her eye. “He’s the one who sent Botchup here, isn’t he? If he was stupid enough to do that, he’s likely to fall for just about anything. And knowing my troops, I can guarantee that’s exactly what they’re going to come up with.”

  “Yeah, I think we can trust the troops to rise to a challenge,” said Rembrandt dryly. “But what if General Blitzkrieg just happens to bring along somebody smart enough to know when he’s being played for a sucker? Colonel Battleax, for example—she’s got more than her share of brains.”

  “Yeah, and that’s why he won’t bring her,” said Brandy confidently. “He’s coming here with one thing in mind, and that’s making the captain into a scapegoat. Colonel Battleax plays by the rules, but she’s always been willing to give Captain Jester and Omega Company a fair shake—even if it means bending the rules a little. She’s the last person the general wants looking over his shoulder when he’s trying to screw us over.”

  “So maybe we’ve got a chance to keep him off-balance,” said Rembrandt. “That still leaves us with one big problem—how long can we keep him from noticing the captain’s not here? Especially since he’s coming all the way here for the particular pleasure of chewing him out face-to-face …”

  “I am thinking I have a solution to that,” said Flight Leftenant Qual, bouncing out of his seat. “You should severally attend to your own assignments, and I will undertake to provide the general with diversion in that department.” The little Zenobian flashed a toothy reptilian grin and, before anyone could ask what he meant, was out the door.

  “What the hell’s ol’ Qual up to?” asked Chocolate Harry, scratching his head.

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Rembrandt, shrugging.

  “Whatever it is, I hope it’s good,” said Armstrong. “General Blitzkrieg may not have the quickest mind in the Legion, but he’s still got stars on his shoulders. If he realizes we’re playing games with him, he can make life really lousy for everybody here.”

  “In that case, we’d better get to work,” said Rembrandt. “I think we’ve all got plenty to do, don’t we?”

  “No kiddin’,” said Chocolate Harry, rolling his eyes. “And when the general gets here, ain’t none of it gonna matter.” He lifted his ample bulk out of the chair and headed out the door.

  “I sure hope he’s wrong about that,” said Armstrong.

  “I don’t know whether he is or not,” said Rembrandt. “But we’ve got to act as if he is, don’t we?”

  There was a resigned murmur of agreement, and the cadre of Omega Company scattered to prepare—as best they could—for General Blitzkrieg.

 
Chapter Five

  Journal #789

  During the settlement of Cut ’N’ Shoot, considerable effort went into re-creating the ambience of “the Old West,” even down to details not strictly necessary to the functioning of the colony as a vacation spot. Evidently it was felt that tourists—on whom the colony placed much of its hope for income—would expect, upon a visit to the Old West, to encounter Indians, as the aboriginal inhabitants of that legendary territory were designated.

  Unfortunately, the historical evidence on these people is rather contradictory. There were evidently three groups to whom the title was applied, and the founders of Cut ’N’ Shoot were uncertain just which ones to incorporate into their re-creation. A committee chosen to solve the problem arrived at the Solomonic decision to invite all three groups to participate. And so, East, West, and Wild Indians all arrived and set up villages where tourists could appreciate their exotic lifestyles.

  I, for one, could never understand how the founders could ignore the evidence, plain as the noses on their faces, that the aboriginals of a territory known as the Old West must have been the West Indians. This group, with its quaint traditions of cricket matches, carnival season, and rum-laced drinks, was easily the most exotic we saw during our entire visit.

  * * *

  “Man, you really look stupid,” said Do-Wop, pointing at Sushi’s furry chaps, fringed vest, and ten-gallon hat.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll look even stupider trying to ride a robosteed wearing a Legion uniform,” said Sushi. “In fact, you look …”

  “Don’t say it,” warned Do-Wop, cocking a fist threateningly. He looked mournfully at the bed, where his own Western outfit was laid out. Like Sushi’s, it had been provided—supposedly at no extra charge—by the stable that rented them the robosteeds they were going to ride west in search of the captain.

  Sushi grinned. “I’ll just think it, then. Come on, buckaroo. Get your duds on, and let’s go ridin’.”

  “You ever been on a robosteed before?” asked Do-Wop, picking up the hat. “I don’t like the looks of ’em.”