The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set

by Robert Asprin

  Then Harry shrugged. The antigrav anomaly meant that none of the players was ever going to have a ball land in the area. He might as well just leave it alone. It couldn’t possibly affect the game—could it?

  * * *

  Flight Leftenant Qual took a hefty swing and watched the ball fly down the driving range, curving rapidly from left to right. It was remarkable how a hard little sphere, no bigger than a vlort egg, could display such unpredictable aerodynamic effects when launched into the air with one of the striking objects—golf clubs, the humans called them, although the phrase seemed to have more than one meaning. The rocket scientists could undoubtedly learn something from the performance of the little spheres, although Qual had no idea whether it would be useful. He thought it unlikely to have much value as a weapon unless its accuracy could be improved—a task at which he had been laboring for some time now.

  Qual understood that one of the humans’ chief leaders, General Blitzkrieg, was on his way to Zenobia to harass the members of Omega Company. Strong-arm seemed to believe that a display of proficiency in launching the golf balls would make the general less harsh toward the local humans. This made some sense if the balls were to be used as weapons, but it seemed that only the officers were being encouraged to launch them. Qual had noticed that in most human military organizations, the officers exposed themselves to danger as little as possible, avoiding the active use of weapons. His good friend Captain Clown seemed to be an exception to that rule, as he was in so many other ways.

  Perhaps the balls, like the swords and spears his own race had employed in the distant past, were obsolete weapons used only in symbolic combat. Many human officers seemed to enjoy such symbolic combats—fencing, boxing, driving vehicles at unsafe speeds—so perhaps golf belonged in that category. One of the meanings of “club” did appear to refer to a kind of weapon—although Strong-arm had made it clear to Qual that it was extremely bad form to bash one’s opponents’ heads with the golf clubs. Humans were a curious species—but Qual already knew that.

  He removed another ball from the bucket and balanced it on the conical plastic support called, for some nonobvious reason, a “tea.” It rested there while he addressed it with his club. (It had taken him a little while to understand that one did not actually need to inscribe the ball with the name of the place one intended to send it—though it occurred to him that perhaps if one did, it might arrive there more reliably.) He lifted the club—called a “chauffeur,” again for reasons undiscoverable by simple logic—keeping his left elbow straight, as Strong-arm had instructed him. A swift downward movement of the club, and this ball soared off to join its companion somewhere in the brush on the right fringe of the driving range. This was a sort of progress; the last few shots had ended up in more or less the same place.

  Qual was taking the next ball out of the bucket when his translator spoke to him. “Greetings, Flight Leftenant Qual. How satisfactory to you is your progress in the practice of hitting balls with the chauffeur golf club?” Or words to that effect; Qual had long since learned that the translator’s output was not to be taken as utterly reliable. Much depended on both context and on the actual speaker’s choice of language. He looked up to see the legionnaire known as Thumper, a nonhuman like himself.

  “Greetings, Dull Noisemaker,” Qual replied. “My progress remains uncertain; I have only recently managed to place several consecutive balls in a tight pattern. Unfortunately, that pattern is far to one side of my point of aim.”

  Thumper made a movement with his head that, when humans did it, signified understanding or agreement. He said something which Qual’s translator interpreted as, “That is an awkwardness. I hope it would not be impertinent for someone of limited experience to suggest realigning your point of aim to compensate.”

  “That is a very rational suggestion,” said Qual, putting the golf club over his shoulder. “Of course, it requires consistency of effect, which is what I now strive to attain. With such a realigned aiming point, it would be a misfortune inadvertently to strike a ball so that it flies absolutely straight.”

  “Agreement,” said Thumper. “Consistency is the usual result of assiduous application, so we can hope that principle will apply in this case.”

  “I appreciate your encouragement,” said Qual. “I intend to exert myself to that end.” After a pause, he added, “Since this golf is a novel pursuit to my kind, I would appreciate any education you can offer me. I have not made great progress, but after all, this is only my first session. Perhaps you would even be so kind as to serve as my adviser during my attempts to compare golfing skills with the humans.”

  “Thank you, Flight Leftenant,” said Thumper via Qual’s translator. “I would much appreciate the opportunity to assist you in your competition, but golf is hardly my specialty. Also, having fallen into General Blitzkrieg’s ill graces through no fault of my own, I have been advised to hold myself as much as possible beyond the periphery of his awareness. I fear I will have to decline the invitation.”

  Qual thought for a moment, leaning on his driver. “Perhaps not,” he said. “As a valued ally of the humans, I have certain privileges, including the choice of my own staff. If I elect to employ the services of one of their legionnaires, it should be seen as an honor to the Alliance, rather than a slight. And”—he paused for a moment—“if I have not guessed wrong, you have insights into human activities I am not likely to get from either a human or from one of my own species.”

  “The possibility exists,” admitted Thumper. “It does appear to have the potential for amusement. But if you do not object, I wish to consider it a little more—and get the advice of a trusted acquaintance—before giving you a final answer.”

  “Utterly reasonable,” said Qual. “And now, if it is not in conflict with your assigned Legion duties, I would appreciate your continued advice on my mode of striking the ball. Please be absolutely candid—it is to my benefit.”

  “With enthusiasm,” the translator said, after Thumper had spoken. “Attempt a number of swings, and I will determine if I can detect anything of use.”

  “Very well,” said Qual, stepping up to address the ball again. “Be alert! Anything might well occur!” He took a powerful swing, and again the ball flew on its way downrange …

  * * *

  “What the hell’s that up ahead, Soosh?” Do-Wop asked, peering into the darkness that had fallen over the trail. It was clear what he was asking about; some distance away, there was a flickering of light, not quite steady enough to be artificial. They’d been following directions the general storekeeper in town had given them, but it had been dark for some time, and it was anybody’s guess if they were still on the trail.

  “I think those are fires,” said Sushi in a low voice. “If our map’s right, that ought to be the Indian camp they told us about back in town. I think we’re on the right track.”

  “Fires, huh?” said Do-Wop. He pointed to his wrist comm. “You think we oughta call the fire department, then? There must be half a dozen of ’em up there, burning away. Somebody might get hurt …”

  Sushi shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I think they’re supposed to be part of the Authentic Western Experience of Cut ’N’ Shoot. From what I remember, they used to use open fires all the time on Old Earth, for cooking and light and to keep wild animals away at night.”

  “Lousy way to run a planet,” said Do-Wop. “Authentic Western Experience or not, I bet the Italians didn’t do it that way.”

  “How do you think they did it?” said Sushi, hunkering down to peer ahead. “Porta-range furnaces? Pocket microwaves?”

  “Sure,” said Do-Wop nonchalantly. “We invented everything else any good. Ice cream, pizza, beer …”

  Sushi rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said. “Maybe I’d believe you if I thought you knew enough history to find Italy on a map, which would surprise me no end, considering you can’t find the Legion base on a map of Zenobia.”

  “Hey, I can read a map
just as good as you can,” said Do-Wop. “Besides, you’re just jealous. Italians invented the mob, too, which your guys only got a stoopid-sounding copy of. What’s it called, Yazooka? Is ’at some kinda chewin’ gum, or what?”

  “Yakuza,” said Sushi. “Which to me, at least, doesn’t sound any stupider than mafia, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Yeah, huh? You call my uncle Nunzio stupid, you gonna find out whether you can walk wit’ the fishes …”

  “I thought it was sleeping with the fishes I was supposed to be worried about,” said Sushi. “Y’know, if you’re going to try to scare people, you ought to at least try to make a threat that makes sense.”

  “An’ that shows how much you know,” said Do-Wop, poking his finger at Sushi’s chest. “When I make a farkin’ threat …”

  “You make-um heap big noise,” came a deep voice from out of the dark. “Heard you both a long way off, bump and crash like drum roll-um downhill. You lucky no wild animals here look-um for nice rump of paleface for supper.”

  “Who said that?” said Do-Wop, jumping. He peered out into the dark but could see nothing.

  “I think the Indians just found us,” said Sushi, standing up. “Hello, whoever you are. Can you take us to your leader?”

  “What, you think we in some bad movie?” said the deep voice again. A towering figure glided forward from the shadows, its facial features still obscured by the darkness.

  “What’s a movie?” asked Do-Wop, moving up alongside Sushi. Almost without thinking about it, he assumed a fighting stance.

  “Like a tri-vee, only flat,” said Sushi absentmindedly. He put his weight on the balls of his feet, not in as aggressive a stance as Do-Wop but still ready to respond if the stranger made a hostile move.

  “You paleface boys look like you get ready kick-um ass,” said the stranger, amusement in his voice. “Why you don’t come smoke-um peace pipe instead? We talk, eat some good food, maybe do some business …”

  “Food?” said Sushi, suddenly aware of his nearly empty stomach. “Gee, I guess I could use a bite to eat.”

  “Peace pipe?” said Do-Wop. “Yo, man, lead the way.”

  Chapter Seven

  Journal #793

  A man of fixed habits is thought by many to be unflappable, impossible to upset. As a man whom many would consider to be a prime example of that description, I can tell you frankly that the popular perception is only partly correct.

  Granted, a regular routine is one of the best ways to prevent disturbance in one’s life. If one knows that the mail arrives at ten o’clock and that dinner is served at six, such events serve as anchors for the day’s activities. Even when the mail is delayed, or when some family member is detained at work until past the dinner hour, one knows that these are aberrations. One adjusts to the variation, secure in the confidence that routine will reassert itself in due course. Indeed, this is one of the appeals of the military life—one of the few, I should add.

  But there is an infallible way to disconcert a man of fixed habits, and that this is to deprive him of any routine whatsoever. The most insidious way to do this is to send him off on vacation …

  * * *

  Lieutenant Armstrong gritted his teeth, staring out into the Zenobian desert. There was a plume of dust rapidly approaching the camp across the arid landscape. General Blitzkrieg was here. And that meant that, for the foreseeable future, Omega Company was about to get some long-deferred experience in the ugly side of life in the Legion.

  Well, Armstrong had done his share of brownnosing and kowtowing to irrational brass; he could undoubtedly fall back into the routine if he had to. He’d never been particularly good at it, which is why he’d ended up in Omega Company instead of in some more desirable posting. That was before Captain Jester had come, back when Omega Company was the rathole of the Legion, the catchall for incorrigibles and incompetents no other unit wanted. Considering that the Space Legion was widely recognized as the rathole of the Alliance military, that was saying a lot.

  It was well-known that General Blitzkrieg still looked at Omega Company as a rathole. In fact, he apparently preferred it that way. There had to be someplace so bad it could be used to threaten anyone who got out of line or failed to come up to the mark. As far as Armstrong could figure it out, the general considered Omega Company his personal property and soundly resented Captain Jester’s turning it into the best outfit in the Legion.

  It rarely occurred to Armstrong to question the wisdom of a superior officer, let alone that of a general of the Legion. But when it came to Omega Company, he’d seen the before and after versions with his own eyes and knew which was better. In his considered opinion, General Blitzkrieg was full of … well, “hot air” was one of the more genteel expressions that came to Armstrong’s mind.

  Almost every member of Omega Company had a similarly low opinion of the general. That meant that Lieutenant Armstrong was going to have his hands full preventing the incident that the general had undoubtedly come here intending to provoke. And with the captain off-base—no, worse than that, completely out of reach—it was going to be a major chore to neutralize the general, even with Omega Company’s officers babysitting him for the entire length of his visit. Even with the help of the entire command cadre, there was bound to be somebody who snapped. It might be Sergeant Escrima; it might be one of the recent recruits; it might even be the usually phlegmatic Tusk-anini. The problem was that nobody knew exactly who the general was going to go after, or how, and that meant that nobody could completely prepare for it.

  But the general’s hoverjeep had reached the perimeter of the camp. Now it was too late for preparations. Anything that wasn’t already done wasn’t going to get done. Armstrong sighed, then pulled himself upright into his sharpest military posture and strode forward to greet the arriving vehicle.

  Now that the dust cloud had begun to settle, Armstrong could see that the general’s hoverjeep was a deluxe ultra-stretch model, as much a limo as a jeep. Its exterior color was deep Legion black with tinted windows and antennas that, from their size and number, could pick up signals from all over the civilized galaxy. To judge by the size of the hood, it featured an especially powerful engine. On both sides and on the hood, an oversize Legion insignia was painted in gold, surrounded by general’s stars. Armstrong had heard some commentator claim that a man’s vehicle was an extension of his personality; if that was so, General Blitzkrieg was not a man to trifle with.

  The hoverjeep slowed to a stop, settled onto its parking cushions, and the engine noise faded to a low hum. Armstrong stationed himself by the rear door, then nodded to Brandy, who’d brought along her training squad as an honor guard and reception party. “Ten-HUT!” barked the first sergeant, and to Armstrong’s relief, the legionnaires responded with almost commendable sharpness as a slim woman in a major’s uniform stepped out of the driver’s seat. She stepped around to the passenger side and opened the door for a heavyset man—General Blitzkrieg.

  Armstrong snapped off his best academy salute and held it. But instead of returning the salute, the general glared around the assembled troops and bellowed, “Where the hell is that idiot Jester? He should have been here to meet me. There’d better be a damned good explanation, or I’m going to fry his ass!”

  Right at that moment, Lieutenant Armstrong knew it was not going to be one of his better days.

  * * *

  General Blitzkrieg was doing his best to conceal his glee as Sparrowhawk opened the door to let him emerge from his hoverjeep. He’d known better than to expect his arrival on Zenobia to be a total surprise. The damned military grapevine was far too efficient for a general to travel halfway across the Alliance without anyone’s noticing and warning his prospective hosts. So by all rights, Captain Jester should have had at least some advance notice of the general’s impending inspection tour. In any case, an honor guard—if you wanted to dignify a couple dozen legionnaires by that name—had turned out to greet his arrival. So Jester did have advance
notice. And by age-old military custom, Jester himself should have been at the landing site to greet the arriving brass—putting the best face on the situation, even if he knew his miserable outfit was going to fall short of the general’s standards.

  But, to Blitzkrieg’s astonishment, Captain Jester was nowhere to be seen. Such a flagrant failure to kowtow to the Legion’s commanding general was exactly the kind of opening Blitzkrieg wanted—a lapse so blatant that even the most ardent of Jester’s supporters would have a hard time explaining it away. Normally he’d have to do some digging to come up with some suitable provocation; he might even have to magnify some molehill of imperfection into a mountain of culpability. But here was a major lapse in military courtesy—if not an outright dereliction of duty—being handed to him on a platinum-plated platter! Blitzkrieg was delighted.

  The ranking officer here was a lieutenant, who was at least managing a decent salute. Blitzkrieg hadn’t bothered to look up the names of Omega Company’s junior officers. The simple fact that they were here meant that they were screwups, and that was all he needed to know about them. He hated screwups—they made the Legion look bad, and that made him look bad. He wouldn’t stand for that.

  He stood scowling for a long moment before returning the lieutenant’s salute. “As you were, Lieutenant,” he grumbled. Then, leaning forward, he hissed, “Where’s that idiot Jester? And don’t tell me he didn’t know I was coming—even he isn’t that dumb. Where is he?”